tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3308448924458873072024-03-14T06:11:28.604-04:00A.nother L.ame B.logNot just my initials...a promise!Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-22147818493127847212011-10-13T14:05:00.002-04:002011-10-13T14:08:32.189-04:00How I Accidentally Found My "Potential"Confession: One time, when I was in grade school, I got my mom <em>(who has enough creativity to flood the entire market!)</em> to draw a picture of a unicorn for me. It was awesome. It had a unicorn. And it had purple in it. What more can you ask for (besides glitter)? <br />
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I was so excited about the picture that I took it to school with me and placed it in my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trapper_Keeper">Trapper Keeper</a>.<em> (In case you weren't alive during the late 80's/early 90's, the Trapper Keeper was my generation's iPad back then.)</em> Then my art teacher Mrs. Shaw saw it, and said how good it was, and what a great artist I was. She was BOWLED OVER! Simply simmering with the excitement that there was someone in her art class who might have some potential. I didn't exactly correct her and tell her that my mom drew it. So of course, she called my mother and said she thought I had potential and would like to give me private lessons. <br />
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Crap. <br />
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It was time to become an artist---stat!<br />
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I remember the first lesson I was so excited. I had my fresh artists sketch pad, my kneaded erasers, and my charcoal pencils all ready to go. The only thing I didn't have was talent. But hey, I was 8 years old, and I had an awesome imagination. I figured I could wing it. All I needed was to draw something super awesome so I wouldn't get caught in this lie.<br />
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For my first lesson, she asked me to draw my hand. It probably looked like a one-dimensional Oompa Loompah hand. Red flags should have been going off at this time for her. Big ones. <br />
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But, she persisted. She taught me how to sketch, paint watercolor, pastels, acrylics, calligraphy...you name it. I was doing still-lifes, painting scenes from Swan Lake...I even painted a portrait of my baby brother. And I loved every second of it. I wasn't an artist when I started, but I became one with the proper nudging. <br />
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My mom has never heard this confession. Until now. Oops. <br />
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As I got into high school I had less time for art. I managed to pick up a pottery class, or I would doodle in History when I was supposed to be taking notes. And after college I took up jewelry-making, which kind of stuck around even now.<br />
But I haven't painted in a long, long, long time. <br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
A local business called <a href="http://paintpartiesstudios.com/wilmington/wineanddesignownersharrietmillsemmypreiss">Wine & Design</a> asked me to sit in on one of their sessions and to check them out. As I understand it, they will sketch out a painting on canvas, and then you follow along with the group as you are walked through painting it...kind of like a very sophisticated Paint-By-Numbers. This is a good thing for me, since I haven't sketched in probably over a decade and am more than a little rusty. I'll let them handle the design of it, and then I'll fill in the blanks with the paint. So exciting! <br />
<br />
Some people deal with stress by working out.<br />
Some people deal with stress by eating. <br />
Some people deal with stress by diving into creative outlets. <br />
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I happen to do the last two on that list. And Wine & Design satisfies both of those urges for me, as you can bring your own food and drink to the session with you. <br />
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Once I go I will have to check back in and show you my masterpiece. And since I'm a Baltimore-girl deep down in my soul still, I chose to paint a crab (see below for an example). <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AB1qBsYtuO8MtJH5nCKqMlHG1-Rh7P_pJv5JhxC_3W9QDuQBFpYkv9cOfrvFQh-A4IIQB6rZnlRMGlZFOeoP_xaru2h4LDlVAMH-u4XboEUbGXwuSSlTOqi1aqjFAS2y84Tl7M7XY5I/s1600/crab.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8AB1qBsYtuO8MtJH5nCKqMlHG1-Rh7P_pJv5JhxC_3W9QDuQBFpYkv9cOfrvFQh-A4IIQB6rZnlRMGlZFOeoP_xaru2h4LDlVAMH-u4XboEUbGXwuSSlTOqi1aqjFAS2y84Tl7M7XY5I/s320/crab.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I'm sure mine will look more like THIS...</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRTpHqU_jns1Jd4v45ShipNBMOvZuIWtoC0icK4AzP8RKpBrfhZiAPoDha-CHK20B6b6OkmSLKlFKCUSDsfwSsSSmTkKwnqVHOmeWNPZiUr7fDoTBkA8kLuuKzOgEbO5lnUcSI66OXts/s1600/sketch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRTpHqU_jns1Jd4v45ShipNBMOvZuIWtoC0icK4AzP8RKpBrfhZiAPoDha-CHK20B6b6OkmSLKlFKCUSDsfwSsSSmTkKwnqVHOmeWNPZiUr7fDoTBkA8kLuuKzOgEbO5lnUcSI66OXts/s200/sketch.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">...But I will have so much fun doing it! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you want to join me on this creative adventure, all you have to do is <a href="http://paintpartiesstudios.com/wilmington/calendar">register</a> for the event on Nov. 18th. I'll be there. And I'm thinking I might do my hair in a 'fro in honor of Bob Ross that night. Thoughts? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cellulite and Tell You Right, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Andy</div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-15037225099062210582011-05-10T16:04:00.001-04:002011-05-10T16:06:54.038-04:00Hey Jerk! No one gives me a bad day but me, got it?!Most days in the office for me are bad days. <br />
<br />
Well, that's not really fair to say. A bad day in the office usually doesn't make the <em>entire</em> day bad, just 9 hours of it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Example: Today, our temp. employee got mad at me because I called her a temp. (???) So, then she confronted me and for 5 minutes she explained to me how she takes her job "<em>very seriously"</em>, and being called "a temp." hurt her feelings. <em>(This is the same temp. who cannot write any of our press releases without several egregious spelling errors. The same temp. who I have to explain eight different times the location of our payroll office. The same temp. who (per my boss) has been made exempt from certain aspects of her job because she "doesn't do well talking to people". The same temp. who never, ever, ever responds to email requests from anyone. THAT temp.)</em> And yes, I referred to her as a "temp." to someone...because she<u> <em>is</em></u> in fact a temp. employee. But she was "insulted". So then I was made to apologize, and tell her I wouldn't ever do it again.<br />
<br />
Forced apologies always make me feel like a 5 year-old again. "<em>Now Andy, say you're sorry for calling Becky a poopy-head." </em>Ridiculous. <br />
<br />
So, to make sure Temp didn't have the final say on my bad day, I left the office for my lunch break and went bathing suit shopping. Because that ALWAYS makes you feel better about yourself, right? <br />
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Bathing suit shopping after a forced coworker apology is the office equivalent of eating a warm turd sundae and then topping it with salmonella syrup. <br />
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So yeah, maybe not the best decision. I had 29 bathing suits in my hands. Their fitting room limit is 6 (stupid rule!). So after all that squeezing, jiggling, jumping, and shimmying into these 29 different sausage casings called "swimsuits", I finally found one I could live with. I guess you could say the only winner in this scenario was Target, where for $30 I found this little gem...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8WwZ6WY1738zHWkH1ohhH8or79G-GOqbv9uXwyvSQOc-QXff6vjQ1wMzJRPXWlD5evFYJjgqnyuXHXx-XQn7yNWzpRVTlvFmDWWdh5ahtKdmmgHFwY68zIJnQR097g5mRPv_wrhKX_c/s1600/untitled.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs8WwZ6WY1738zHWkH1ohhH8or79G-GOqbv9uXwyvSQOc-QXff6vjQ1wMzJRPXWlD5evFYJjgqnyuXHXx-XQn7yNWzpRVTlvFmDWWdh5ahtKdmmgHFwY68zIJnQR097g5mRPv_wrhKX_c/s320/untitled.JPG" width="271" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Which I was pretty excited to find. Because 1) I am leaving for vacation in 2 weeks and my old bathing suit is so threadbare it is practically see-through, and 2) I am THRILLED to have found a bathing suit that did not weigh 15 lbs. all by itself. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What is it with swimsuit designers? They assume if you are a plus-sized girl, surely you must want a suit that nips, tucks, sucks, lifts, separates, and smooths every curve of your body. I have tried on a million different suits, and they all have so much sewn into them that you feel like you are wearing a Kevlar vest. Yyyeah, cuz that's what I want at the beach...to have an underwire from my bathing suit pierce my chest cavity, have my lung collapse, and then have the Life Guard not be able to even save me because he couldn't cut through the 18 layers of "slimming" Spandex in the suit in order to give me chest compressions. That's <em>totally </em>how I want to go out. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">No thank you, designers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I need something that lets me move. That dries quickly. And that makes me feel pretty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't need to feel like I'm wearing a laser-tag vest. And I don't need the suit to come with an instruction manual on how to strap myself into it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyone else out there this season find anything that worked for them? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Cellulite and Tell You Right, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Andy </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-53032523565862853912011-05-05T16:23:00.001-04:002011-05-05T16:24:21.141-04:00Happy Cinco de Andy. Or Andy de Mayo...whichever you prefer.Well, today I turned 28. <br />
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Which means ten years ago....TEN WHOLE YEARS AGO.... I was turning 18. Oh, 18. I remember you. Bright-eyed. <strike>Two</strike> <strike>three</strike> five pants sizes smaller. Just ending my freshman year in college. Turning twenty-eight seemed 28 years down the road. <br />
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And yet, here it is. The day I turn 28. Had you told the 18-year-old version of myself what I would look like, what I would have been through, and who I would be becoming as a 28 year old, I would have laughed hysterically at you. If only, if only the 28 year old me could have a conversation with the 18-year-old me a decade ago, I would have been surprised to hear myself say these things about myself (huh, I'm confused?). This is probably how those conversations would go...<br />
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<strong><u>You will eventually want practical gifts. </u></strong>28 year-old-me: <span style="color: #38761d;">Hey, 18-year-old me, Happy Birthday!</span><br />
18-year-old-me: <span style="color: #0b5394;">Yeah, Happy Birthday! Here's to us!</span><br />
28 Y.O.M.- <span style="color: #38761d;">So, what kind of presents did you ask for? </span><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Oh, okay, so you know that sparkly turquoise shirt at Charlotte Russe? That. And this chunky bracelet I saw in the window of the jewelry store. And I totally want lots of flowers. And chocolates. And I want everyone to make a big deal and take me out for drinks and expensive food and limo rides. You know, the basic stuff. Why, what did you ask for? </span>28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Oh. well number one thing is new tires on my car. They are totally bald, and everytime I drive in the rain I have to start talking to God outloud to make sure he has at least one eye on my and the car. Also, I reallllllly reallllllly want a double-barreled tumbling composter (I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish!!!). Also, I totally need some new underwear. You know, just black, cotton, bikini cut. No biggie.</span> </span><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Oh. Well. That sounds...nice. </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Yeah. Actually, it is. </span><br />
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<strong><u>You will still be single. </u></strong><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">So, tell me everything about our life! I totally want to know about our husband. Please tell me he has dark hair. And is big enough to pick us up. And that he makes lots of money. </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Well, about that. We aren't married yet. </span><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Whaaaaat!?!? You're joking, right? Oh wait, I get it...we are engaged, just not married. </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Nnnnope. Not even close. We aren't even dating anyone right now.</span> <br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">I think I'm going to puke. </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">No no no, listen, it's really okay.</span> <br />
18 Y.O.M-<span style="color: #0b5394;"> "<em>Okay</em>?" How can you say that? If we aren't married by the time we are 28, all of the good men will either be married or on the verge of developing Alzheimers! ((Sob, sob, sob. Sound of popping another cork)).</span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">There, there, 18-year-old-me. Its really a good thing. Trust me. If you had gotten married at 21, or 24, or even 26, it would have been a disaster. We would totally have been divorced by now. You had no idea how to be a good wife. I'm finally just learning about myself at age 28. I am <strong>SO</strong> thrilled to not be married yet.</span><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Whatever. </span><br />
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<strong><u>You will be managing finances for a living. </u></strong><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">So, if we aren't married, we probably have some awesome, cutting edge creative job where we get to use our writing skills, right? </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Well, I wouldn't really say "creative". Or "use our writing skills" so much. But we do manage state-controlled finances including grants, trust funds, endowments, scholarships, and general funds. We are responsible for creating budgets, reporting on actuals, and answering to the spending of every single dollar of that money, which totals well over $1 million dollars.</span>18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">You're joking. We barely scraped through our high school math classes. Thank the Lord for perky boobs and high school coaches who doubled as math teachers. We learned early on to either flirt with the teacher so he would doctor our grades, or flirt with the smartest boy in class so we could copy his homework every day. Those were the only two things that got us through math. </span>28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">I know. Trust me, I remember. </span><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Sooo, what happened. </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Honestly, I have no idea. How the stink did we get here?</span> (Cue Talking Heads <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1wg1DNHbNU">"Once In A Lifetime"</a> song in our heads.)<br />
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<strong><u>You will be living with your mother.</u></strong><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Well, I mean, I guess that's okay. Our job isn't everything. I bet we make slammin' money, and live in some kind of great bachelorette pad, right? </span>28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">We live with mom. </span><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Exsqueeze me?</span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Yeah. But actually, it is awesome. We bought this cute little house together. And there is great veggie garden. She is the best roommate we ever had. And trust me, I know. We went through at least 12 roommates. She takes the cake.</span><br />
<span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="color: black;">18</span> </span><span style="color: black;">Y.O.M- </span><span style="color: #0b5394;">That is so lame. I could totally NOT have sex with my boyfriend while my mom in the same house. </span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Yyyyyeah, about that...</span><br />
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<strong><u>You will be getting crunchier. </u></strong><br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">I'm sorry. This is just a bit much for me. None of this comes close to anything I dreamt about. Here, pass me that can of aerosol hairspray really quick so I can fix my hair. Then we will jump in my gas-guzzling car and head on down to Dutch Family Restaurant to eat an entire artificially flavored, preservative-stuffed, transfatty-filled Banana Cream Pie. (Yes, W.A.C. friends, that was just a Dutch Family reference...just for you!) Who cares, right?</span><br />
28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">Well, at 28, we actually do care. We aren't off the deep-end yet. But just wait...the older you/I get, the more we find ourselves concerned with the food we eat, the chemicals we put on and in our body, the cleaning agents we use, what we put on my garden and lawn, etc.</span> <br />
18 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #0b5394;">Oh my gosh. You sound like some hippy-dippy, crunchy granola loving free bird. </span>28 Y.O.M- <span style="color: #38761d;">I know. But seriously. Our body is paying for the crap you are putting in it now. And the world is only getting dirtier and more toxic the older we get. Please. Back away from the Banan Cream Pie.</span><br />
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And even though 18-year-old me would have been horrified at the list I just rattled off, the 28-year-old me knows that I am more happy, more fulfilled, stronger, wiser, and more blessed than I could have even imagined possible at 18. <br />
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Not that I wouldn't kill to have that 18 year-old body back. ;)<br />
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But I've never been happier. <br />
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Thanks to everyone for making my road to 28 an amazing trip. <br />
<br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
Andy<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ecgPIHKxn5Q-3AAjnQRLDzM_S393_5Bsf6UZN3wLrEkXQ6FWsdAkxqNPCFF1-9EpvhSj61_7DmLKHSdb4HyeqHRsjVttjWARDD_aU6EfB8Cih-50o5iPSwbyig8ka5r8ZY0mKzwxWWE/s1600/Andy+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ecgPIHKxn5Q-3AAjnQRLDzM_S393_5Bsf6UZN3wLrEkXQ6FWsdAkxqNPCFF1-9EpvhSj61_7DmLKHSdb4HyeqHRsjVttjWARDD_aU6EfB8Cih-50o5iPSwbyig8ka5r8ZY0mKzwxWWE/s320/Andy+3.jpg" width="228" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Me, at 18. Ten stinkin' years ago. Ten. Years. </div>Note the absence of underarm flab and the perky, bra-free boobs. Nevermore, nevermore. <br />
Totally unaware of the crazy ride I am about to embark on over the next decade. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5d6-h2vQbjyVX84GGB0y8duZkVGxuj9OJoXqRghfTDA7ahT1sImW3TI7ApbTt4I3O4Y8HgzV6gLLq9yEQBto9N4MIUXpGawGBjcoynZpTIX8w4Ymr_lAoFVmr5NwkImEyxTk5VoIsas/s1600/Mom+and+baby+Andy+in+hospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5d6-h2vQbjyVX84GGB0y8duZkVGxuj9OJoXqRghfTDA7ahT1sImW3TI7ApbTt4I3O4Y8HgzV6gLLq9yEQBto9N4MIUXpGawGBjcoynZpTIX8w4Ymr_lAoFVmr5NwkImEyxTk5VoIsas/s320/Mom+and+baby+Andy+in+hospital.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Me and mom in the hospital right after I was born. My favorite things about this photo...the rotary phone. Mom's complete embrace of the 80's hair. And how stinkin' large my head was. </div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-89376427443974080482011-03-29T14:17:00.000-04:002011-03-29T14:17:08.861-04:00I Can Totally Sleep on Four Conference Chairs...**Yet another old blog resurrected and imported from the old site.**<br />
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Okay, so I'm having some car issues. Said issues are <strong><u>so</u></strong> complicated and frustrating, that I will not bore you with a blog about them. But instead, tell you how my life has become even more boring because of them. <br />
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<br />
Because of the car issues I have been catching a ride from someone else to and from work everyday. Which is fine and dandy, and I am super appreciative. But this also means I am arriving at work at 6:20 a.m. even though I don't really need to be there until 7:30 a.m. And I'm also not getting picked up until 6:00ish. So basically, I am now working a 12 hour day. Not fun. Especially since with this new work schedule I am averaging about 3.5 hours of sleep a night. <br />
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When this new schedule first started, I figured I would try to be good and get some extra work done. So I would get here at 6:20, dressed, made-up, heels on, and turn my computer on, log in, and get to work! <br />
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That "go get 'em" attitude lasted about two days. <br />
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After that, this is what I have done with my extra time....<br />
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<strong><u>Day Three:</u></strong> Came into work in my usual business wear, but wearing flip flops, carrying my heals in hand. Surfed online for an hour, paid some bills, etc. <br />
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<strong><u>Day Four:</u></strong> Came into work still wearing half of my PJ's, no make up. Got changed in the bathroom. Did my makeup and hair at my desk. Rested my head on my hand and slowly drifted off into a light state of sleep at my desk. <br />
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<strong><u>Day Five:</u></strong> After being dropped off at the curb, I didn't even go straight to my desk. I walked around upstairs, investigating all the office areas I've never gotten to see before, looking for <strike>candy jars</strike> breakfast, cute little puppy-calendars for me to <em>"Ooooh"</em> and <em>"Ahhh"</em> at, and snipping dead leaves from the office plants. I took some really boring pamphlets from the HR office, tried to shake a free soda from the soda machine (unsuccessfully), attempted to break my own record for speed running up and down the two flights of stairs, and stole a bunch of flattened cardboard boxes that were sitting outside some one's office. <br />
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<strong><u>Day Six:</u></strong> Came straight to my office, and proceeded to tape/staple the stolen cardboard boxes back together to create a fort under my desk for me to sleep in. Set my cellphone alarm for 7:30. Slept in my new cardboar-napping-house for an hour. Loved it! <br />
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<strong><u>Day Seven:</u></strong> Brought a pillow to work today to take into my cardboard-napping-house...only to find that the maids had taken it while they were cleaning the office! Noooo! I had big plans for that napping house. I was going to draw cute pictures on the inside of it. Maybe hang some Christmas lights outside. All for naught! I was so flustered that someone stole an entire napping house that I can't remember anything that happened for the rest of that day. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnExA1xAjTlX8bGi14jNpp63WEHijeDkDG_GIPgpcwPU-tbal9w9vZmBlEk2CgILp0Utf4C0UVDIrl9CCfItgEZRFfO8Ev1Tcrf9ct6ramt-GMkf6ZzlMtY8V2nOUQuUYpz3KNxjwj44/s1600/funny-pictures-fort-cat-cries-on-trash-day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXnExA1xAjTlX8bGi14jNpp63WEHijeDkDG_GIPgpcwPU-tbal9w9vZmBlEk2CgILp0Utf4C0UVDIrl9CCfItgEZRFfO8Ev1Tcrf9ct6ramt-GMkf6ZzlMtY8V2nOUQuUYpz3KNxjwj44/s320/funny-pictures-fort-cat-cries-on-trash-day.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><strong><u>Day Eight:</u></strong> Brought the pillow back to work this morning. Searched for the keys to a co-worker's office who DOES have four walls and a door (lucky stiff). Found said key. Dragged four chairs from the conference room into the co-worker's office, lined them up one right next to each other (apparently, I am 4 conference chairs tall!), set my cell phone alarm, shut and locked their door behind me, and caught an hour of sleep. It was no napping house though. Sadly lacking. <br />
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<strong><u>Day Nine:</u></strong> Giddy and a little high off of my lack of good/sufficient sleep, I thought it would be a good idea to try and slide down the enormous stairway banister in the office. Man, I was right! That was an excellent idea! That entertained me for a good 25 minutes! I also decided to change around the name signs on all of my coworkers office doors. No one noticed. I also found a really cool little secret back door path leading to a wonderful little picnic-ish area outside. (Note to self: Next time work is making you want to shove paperclips into your eyeballs, go to the picnic-ish area, take deep breaths, take your heels off, and walk around the grass barefoot for a few minutes. You'll be fine.)<br />
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Tomorrow will be Day Ten. I would love to promise that something entertaining will happen, but I can't. In fact, I apologize for this whole blog being as boring as it is. I promise. I'll get some sleep soon. Then I'll tell you all about the time I almost got video-taped taking a shower by my creepy ex-next-door neighbor. <br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-69198897930289748372011-02-16T19:42:00.000-05:002011-02-16T19:42:04.853-05:00Friends with BenefitsAnd now, I present to you, the 8 Friends With Benefits Everyone Loves<br />
<br />
<strong><u>1. Doctor Friend-</u></strong> <br />
We'll come to you with every rash, boil, burning sensation, muscle pull, and bout of of explosive diarrhea we ever have. Cuz we know it won't cost us a copay just to get your opinion. And we are hoping you carry that lil' prescription pad around in your pocket. What's that...you're a Podiatrist? We don't care...it's all the same to us. Especially those of us without healthcare. <br />
<br />
<strong><u>2. Cop Friend- </u></strong><br />
Maybe you can make those pesky parking tickets of ours go away. Or give us the inside scoop on where the speeding traps will be set up next Sunday. We want to hear all your crazy local arrest stories. We want to know you've got our back when we get into a scuffle with our neighbor about our outdoor cat peeing on his lawn. And we pretty much are DYING for you to ask us to go on a Ride-Along with you so we can pretend to be all Good Cop/ Bad Cop and wear a bullet proof vest and fulfill our childhood fantasies. <br />
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<strong><u>3. Timeshare/Vacation Home Friend- </u></strong>What's that? You are planning a ski weekend to your home in Killington? We'd LOVE to come! You're planning a Spring Break trip down to your home in Key West and you want our family to come along so your kids aren't bored?! Suuuuuuuuure....I'll put in my vacation request at work now! You're looking for someone to watch your house in Egypt for a month while you "take a breather back in Pennsylvania"? Ummmmmmmm....I think I am washing my hair that month. <br />
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<strong><u>4. Techie Friend- </u></strong><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrcLc56v1XoOgTmzSKrl4iXDzI6HfN1NvwBVglsDR5a9AQ5JUibufm1I_zWCrwSNHiP_UU7Oj0eXA4y246FQ5bex3hvOpLA9eRBsqyz-IwYFG6PbH3hXYiUdAwQ7maM768W5prAQwlYA/s1600/Laptop_Spill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" j6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyrcLc56v1XoOgTmzSKrl4iXDzI6HfN1NvwBVglsDR5a9AQ5JUibufm1I_zWCrwSNHiP_UU7Oj0eXA4y246FQ5bex3hvOpLA9eRBsqyz-IwYFG6PbH3hXYiUdAwQ7maM768W5prAQwlYA/s200/Laptop_Spill.jpg" width="200" /></a>This is pretty much EXACTLY like the Doctor Friend. Except people HATE going to the doctor, and will put it off for 10 years. In the tech world, if something goes wrong with our stuff and our office's I.T. guy doesn't respond in 30 minutes we feel like the whole world is on fire and we can't even Tweet about it, and OMG WHAT DID PEOPLE DO WITHOUT A FUNCTIONING iPAD AND IF I STAND IN LINE AT BEST BUY'S GEEK SQUAD COUNTER ANY LONGER I WILL STAB MYSELF WITH THE SHARP END OF THIS CHARGER CORD AND "Oh wait, that's right....I have a friend who is a techie....I'm totes covered!" (Insert fastest-finger dialing/texting to our most favoritist techie friend in the whole world). Then we will proceed to tell you what happened to our favorite piece of equipment using super informative and helpful words, like "thingy", and "screen of death" and "I don't know what happened, but after I spilled my entire Starbucks Trenta Latte on it things started to go haywire." You will then proceed to tell us to try turning it off and back on again, we will hear that fabulous Start-Up tone, and all will be right in the world again. </div><br />
<strong><u>5. Waiter/Bartender Friend- </u></strong><br />
Oooooh, we looooove you, Bonefish Grill Waitstaff Friend. You magically find us a table in two minutes when the wait is already out the front door. We love that you tell us what NOT to eat from the menu. And we love that when we get our bill it is mysteriously smaller than it should be. You, my friend, will get a FAT tip. <br />
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<strong><u>6. Employee Discount Friend- </u></strong><br />
Come on...it doesn't even really matter what store you work at, we will TOTALLY take advantage of your employee discount. Barnes and Noble Employee Friend? Yipeee! Nine West Employee Friend?! Score! Dollar Store Employee Friend?!?!/ We'll take it!! <br />
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<strong><u>7. Mechanic Friend-</u></strong> <br />
Cars are stinkin' expensive!! And if we can get you to come work on ours in our home garage and pay you in beers and home cooking then by golly, we're going to try! **Side note: You TOTALLY do not want to mistread Mechanic Friend...they hold your life in their hands....One sloppy break installation job and you will be wishing you sprung for the Guinness instead of the PBR when your buddy came over to work on your car.**<br />
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<strong><u>8. Strong Friend with a Truck- </u></strong><br />
This is a double-bonus friend. There will be times in your life when you are buying a huge sectional sofa, need to take bags upon bags of old junk to the dump, moving an entire house full of furniture, or are looking for someone to help tow you out of a mudpit...Strong Friend With a Truck is your go-to guy! <br />
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<br />
Who am I missing? Who is your favorite Friend With Benefits you love to have handy?<br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-17879686907864476202011-02-10T14:56:00.000-05:002011-02-10T14:56:55.749-05:00Please don't put LSD in my WonderbreadOkay- I have lived in my <a href="http://www.capefearcoast.com/about/wilmington.html?src=ppc_google_wilmington_location_location">current town</a> for almost 6 years now, and for 6 years I have driven past this bizarro store and wondered in confusion as I read its sign: <br />
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<strong>"Bakery Thrift Store".</strong><br />
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Huh? What the stink is a bakery thrift store? <br />
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I mean, I know what <strike>heaven</strike> a bakery is: Delicious doughy carbs covered in high-caloric glaze. <br />
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And I know what a thrift store is: Where I dump all my clothes I'm too fat for and then they let other people buy my sweaters that already smell like my deodorant and pants that probably still have remnants of poop and snot permanently crusted on them (I work with a lot of old people and kids...bound to happen.)<br />
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But "bakery" + "thrift store" together just totally confuses me and makes me go to a bad place...<br />
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The only thing I can assume goes on inside those walls are that little old ladies bring in their week-old homemade bread that has gone uneaten but that their cats have started to nibble on. The thrift store owner gives them money, and then turns around and sells the bread to someone who doesn't mind stale bread with hairballs on it. <br />
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This is totally an accurate guess, right? <br />
<br />
Or, all my local sex offenders bake roofies into some innocent looking cinnamon buns, then they wait outside the store to see who buys them, and then follow that person home and just lay in wait. <br />
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Totally plausible. <br />
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I know our economy is totally in the toilet, but whatever this "Bakery Thrift Store" place is, I am SOOOOO not there yet financially to even *think* about darkening the doors. <br />
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Now excuse me, I have to go dent some cans of soup at Walmart so I can get them at a discounted price. <br />
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Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
Andy<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijc0wJJ2oOzTPOti1a5gCcqMZKiv4A-f1MI-6LZ0zVAgrZ3HJTZQgxqxTSuPUru8-wE-ojGwF3VzodluORkrer7bz59FMwgeh7iQmJpGYaCzx1cZqC0DQJOU0T4aK7yO9Wes7ceG-RdfM/s1600/124411_cat__bread.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijc0wJJ2oOzTPOti1a5gCcqMZKiv4A-f1MI-6LZ0zVAgrZ3HJTZQgxqxTSuPUru8-wE-ojGwF3VzodluORkrer7bz59FMwgeh7iQmJpGYaCzx1cZqC0DQJOU0T4aK7yO9Wes7ceG-RdfM/s320/124411_cat__bread.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-87309844525754003852011-01-27T09:07:00.000-05:002011-01-27T09:07:11.306-05:00With Sympathy**(Another old one imported from the old blog. Old old old.) **<br />
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I have a real issue signing a sympathy card <u>as a group</u>, especially if it's work-related thing. I don't know…something about it just doesn't sit right with me.<br />
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I have no problem signing a group card for every other occasion…birthdays, graduations, congrats on the new baby, etc. Suuuure, pass the card around the office and we'll all sign our names on one big card. No prob! <br />
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But a <u>group</u> sympathy card? I don't know. I just feel awkward about it. And what the heck are you supposed to write anyway? Everyone always has terrible quotes on there, sayings, etc. <em>"She's in a better place,"</em> signed in red ink by Jackie. <em>"You're in our prayers,"</em> signed in sparkly turquoise ink by Katherine, the office agnostic. <em>"God won't give us anything we can't handle,"</em> penned by Bill. <br />
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So the card finally gets to me, and I look like a schmuck no matter what I do. <br />
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<u><strong>Option A) Sign the card with just my name. </strong></u><br />
No quotes, no sayings, no prayers. Black ink. My name. All alone in a corner of the card, like a punished school child. Then everyone else who signs the card after me thinks I am heartless and unfeeling because I didn't offer some paltry little crumb of 'encouragement'. <br />
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<strong><u>Option B) Sign the card and write a tag line out of obligation. </u></strong><br />
Why? Because everyone else wrote something additional, that's why…peer pressure sympathy writing. <em>"John, sorry about your mom. Let me know if you need anything."</em> I can't write that…I don't really mean it. I mean, offering to help with ANYTHING is quite a commitment. What if they need people to serve guests at the viewing…would I help with that if he asked me? Probably not; I'm not good around corpses. So that phrase won't do. <em>"John, this too shall pass."</em> Terrible choice of words, and not a comfort at all. Can't use that phrase either. <em>"John, were you really surprised? She was 98 years old."</em> No, that makes me sound heartless. <em>"John, she's looking down on you from heaven and I know she's proud of you."</em> I can't write that. I think it's a lie that people are watching us from heaven, like we're the after-life's version of reality TV. I don't think our dead relatives are propped up on clouds with nothing better to do than watch our stupid antics down here. Nothing I could write sits well enough with me to write it on a card. <br />
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<strong><u>Option C) Don't sign the card at all. </u></strong><br />
I would be stoned to death by my coworkers…all southern belles who agree that any sadness can be lifted with a group card and a some home-made banana pudding. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11l_a7GYRg8QEHU8Sw6ZKpmDs_Y-hbHEhfMim0LJwn6aPLf6U-FgEFY8bIHLlTpZ9unclcMWmrl5X0HYvjXIsFFKv1VtZOpe7GOHOZn_VBLfLIQvVbCG2pDEdtaHlo90PFArdAFGRnnk/s1600/dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh11l_a7GYRg8QEHU8Sw6ZKpmDs_Y-hbHEhfMim0LJwn6aPLf6U-FgEFY8bIHLlTpZ9unclcMWmrl5X0HYvjXIsFFKv1VtZOpe7GOHOZn_VBLfLIQvVbCG2pDEdtaHlo90PFArdAFGRnnk/s400/dead.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong><u>Option D) Send a card on my own.</u></strong></div>No. I'm not good with this, either. Because let's face it everyone…cards have motives. Oh yes…yes they do. Birthday card motivation is to bring a smile to someone's special day. Anniversary card motivation is to celebrate an achievement in holding your marriage together in this day and age of drive-thru chapels and even quicker drive-thru divorces. "Just Thinking of You" card motivation is to let the person know you're thinking of them…simple enough. Valentine's Day card motivation is mostly to help in the bedroom area…if you're honest with yourself. All of those types of greeting cards have the motivation of making the recipient feel good…they are solely for the recipient. What a pure motivation! Bring 'em on! <br />
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But sympathy cards motivation is not what it appears. It is much trickier…it is based on making the GIVER feel better. Not the RECEIVER, like all the other cards. Seriously, if you think about it, have you ever been standing in the aisle at Hallmark, picked out a sympathy card, read it to yourself before deciding on it, and after reading it said <em>"Wow, that will really make John feel better. That card says it all. Surely he'll feel better after getting MY card!"</em> No, I'm sure you've never thought that. Because if it's tragic enough to warrant you feeling like you should send a card, then it's too tragic to be made any better by a card. <br />
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Sympathy card motivation is to make the giver feel better about the situation. You can say to yourself <em>"Well, I did the 'right thing' and I sent a sympathy card. My work here is done." </em>You're buying that card to make yourself feel better, not the person you're giving it to. <br />
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Why not just skip the middle man altogether? Next time you feel like you should give someone a sympathy card, march yourself right to the Hallmark store, go to the "Just for Laughs" section, and pick out a card that brings a smile to your day. And send it to your self. Dear: Me, From: Me. <br />
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Now that you've got that obligatory card purchasing out of your system, why don't you pick up the phone and talk to your friend who is going through the rough time. And tell them, in a voice slow and steady, that you are there for them. And yes, you know it hurts like hell. <br />
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<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-83403954730312326592011-01-06T16:19:00.002-05:002011-01-06T16:25:38.590-05:00Your version of broke, and my version of broke....totes different!So I use this awesome online budgeting tool, <a href="http://mint.com/">Mint.com</a>. I love it, it does so much stuff, and it basically makes a budget for you and tells you when you fail/succeed at it. Since I do budget stuff alllllllllllll the livelong day in my <strike>prison cell</strike> job, the last thing I want to do when I get home is worry about my personal budget. Which is why I love Mint. Cuz I'm a slacker. And I have WAY more important things to do, like paint my nails, and pretend to be a gardener, and daydream about finding my Sugar Daddy. <br />
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Anytime you exceed your budget for something like "Mortgage", "Super Cute Ballet Flats", or "Chinese Food"...you know, the <em><strong>basics</strong></em>...it sends you a little alert email to let you know. Which is cool, cuz then I can say to myself, <em>"Oops...spent too much on clothing this month...oh well...now let's go check out that new shoe store on Castle Street!". </em><br />
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<br />
Most of the time Mint and I are good friends. <br />
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But sometimes, Mint gets all <strong>"Whoah whoah friend, you spent way too much on Gasoline this month...stop going places!"</strong> And then I'm all <em>"Hey, you can't tell me what to do. Besides, I have absolutely NO control over how expensive gas has gotten. Is it my fault that I now have to pay $3.11 for a gallon of gas?! I mean, no wonder I'm over budget...you would be too, Mint, if you weren't some lame website who doesn't even OWN a car to put gas in! Booyah! That's a burn!".</em> And then Mint just rolls his eyes and goes quietly away into cyber world to laugh at my "Savings Account" balance. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdZGyNbkfdn2_SJ_B9ZZkVEZHikUAQG0AHia2DKuGdk1QQye4UcrSAzdOwf765eyhEGvlAMMeuajfEsBRGmwh2-BC4Uk1Hn6gUksLn6KO1WJQdPqmUrvfRHg9KqDzw6jNZVwpsE1L5dk/s1600/gas.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdZGyNbkfdn2_SJ_B9ZZkVEZHikUAQG0AHia2DKuGdk1QQye4UcrSAzdOwf765eyhEGvlAMMeuajfEsBRGmwh2-BC4Uk1Hn6gUksLn6KO1WJQdPqmUrvfRHg9KqDzw6jNZVwpsE1L5dk/s400/gas.bmp" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Or sometimes, it sends me a warning that looks like this...<br />
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</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">.....and then I just laugh! <em>"Low balance?!? Dude, I don't know where you were born, Mint, but where I live, you know, Planet Earth, having $300 bucks in my account is daggone good! That isn't even NEAR the danger zone yet! Stupid Mint! Keep your bourgeoisie warnings to yourself next time until I hit the $0.75 mark, mkay? Thanks!"</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But other times, I totally love Mint. Like the other day, when I got one of those nasty-grams from Mint, saying <strong>"You have exceeded you Charity & Donations Budget".</strong> I was like, <em>"Huh, what, I did?! Mint, have you been hitting the holiday eggnog?"</em> But then I logged in to further investigate, and lo and behold, I had <u>totally</u> exceeded my budgeted charity givings for the month. And I was so stoked, I printed out the email and pasted it on my corkboard where I put all my other super-important items, like concert stubs, tips on applying eye makup (fail!), and pictures of all my friend's babies they send me to be all <em>"Hey, look at us, we are good breeders and passing on our Hot Lookin' genes to the world. What have you done lately? Oh, exceeded your gas budget...real grown up, Andy. Good job. Now peer into our gorgeous baby's eyes and weep in your self-loathing."</em> (That's totally the desired effect baby pictures are supposed to have on single, childless, perfectly good women who are frittering away their fertile years, rrrright?)</div><br />
So yeah, turns out I over-gave this holiday season, and my wallet didn't even feel it! How about that! The Big Dude Upstairs is awesome for stretching my money this year. And you know who else is awesome? All the amazing charities out there who deserve a lot more support than my piddly dollars. So if you have a minute, check out some of my faves. And maybe you can show your Mint who is boss this month. <br />
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<a href="http://donate.worldvision.org/OA_HTML/xxwv2ibeCCtpSctDspRte.jsp?section=10389">World Vision</a>- Dude, you can buy 10 ducks for a family (that's ten whole stinkin' ducks, who will have <strong>more </strong>baby ducks, who will have <strong>MORE</strong> baby ducks), or you can buy one single season of True Blood on DVD. Same price. One is WAY more adorable, and has less stupid looking spring-loaded fangs and less bad acting. Your call. <br />
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<a href="http://www.compassion.com/">Compassion International</a>- I sponsor a kid. And it is one of the best things I have ever done. When I get those little Kenyan report-cards in the mail showing me how she is doing in school, you know the waterworks are coming. <br />
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<a href="http://skateistan.org/">Skateistan</a>- I'm not even going to give you a hint about this one...that's how much I think you should check this out on your own. Good things. <br />
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<a href="http://www.childsplaycharity.org/">Child's Play Charity</a>- Nerd alert. I love nerds. And I love being a nerd. <br />
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<a href="http://winetowater.org/">Wine to Water</a>- This guy took a small idea, and turned it into a big deal. Hero. <br />
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Those are a few of my favorites...how about you guys? Any favorite charities you want to plug? List 'em in the comments and I will be sure to check them out. (Also, at least 17 other people who read this blog might check them out too...cuz that's how I roll....high audiences and whatnot) ;) <br />
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Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-33718603627374269472010-11-30T09:15:00.000-05:002010-11-30T09:15:16.912-05:00Limboing Llamas with Lawnchairs, Oh My!**Another one from the old blog...still importing and cleaning up**<br />
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Okay, so what I'm writing about happened two weeks ago, but I was waiting until I had proof before I posted this blog. <br />
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I was at Fort Fisher beach two weekends ago, enjoying a glorious Sunday afternoon basking in the sun and lunching on some Hairy Tits goodies. (For those of you who don't know, Hairy Tits is Harris Teeter. And Publix is Pube Licks, just so we're clear.)<br />
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When we got to the beach, there were 9 llamas standing around, with their owners, just chilling at the beach. <br />
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Okay, I couldn't just ignore them and go on my merry way, so we walked up to the owners and asked what the heck was up with all the llamas. <br />
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The owners said they just felt like bringing the llamas to the beach that day, so there they were! Taking a day on the beach to air out the llamas. I thought I remembered something about llamas being mountain-animals, but I wasn't sure. So I asked, <em>"Are llamas native to beachy areas. I mean, do they like the ocean and sand and whatnot?"</em><br />
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The head llama lady (we'll call her Dolly Llama from now on since I don't know her name...but she kinda looked like a Dolly) looked at me like I was stupid and said <em>"Well, I guess we'll find out today."</em> Whatever. <br />
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Now let me tell you. The only thing weirder than 9 llamas on the beach are 9 llama <u>owners</u> on the beach. These people were weeeeeeird. I mean, really really weird. <br />
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I thought,<em> "Okay, that's cool. Bringing the llamas to the beach to do a little public edumacation about the way of the llama. I can dig it." </em><br />
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But that's not at all what they were there for. They really didn't want anything to do with anyone else on the beach who showed any interest in the llamas. They just wanted to be in there own llama world...Llamaland.<br />
So once they got settled they busted out the llama games. It was a veritable LLamalympics if you will. First, they started with limbo. Llama limbo. They seriously brought a limbo bar to the beach, and were trying to get these things to limbo. Not UNDER the bar, like human limbo. But OVER the bar. Like dumb llamas. <br />
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Only, the llamas looked like they had never seen a limbo bar before, so the owners had to "teach" them how to do it, by "jumping" over the limbo bar first themselves.<em> (I'm using the word "jumping" very loosely, because these llama owners were about as athletic as me...and we all know that I'm the most nonathletic person in the world, next to Anna Nicole Smith. Oh wait, stripping does require some degree of agility...never mind, I now am officially the most nonathletic person in the world. And she's dead anyway.)</em><br />
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Let me tell you, there was only 1 llama out of the 9 who got the whole limbo concept. And I don't think it's because he was any smarter than the others. I don't think any of them were smart at all. I just think his legs were a little longer. That's not skill. That's genes. <br />
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So after llama limbo, they played a little marathon game. They had two buckets, strung together, which they slung over each llamas back. The object was to walk to llama to the ocean, the owner would fill the buckets with water, put the buckets back on the llama, and walk back to one giant bucket and empty the water in there. They split up into two teams, and whoever filled their big bucket first was the all mighty winner...the Dalai Llama. <br />
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Just one problem with this game...llamas do <strong><u>not</u></strong> in fact like the ocean. I would go so far as the say that they "hate" the ocean. So it ended up just being a human race, with the llamas watching in disbelief at the stupidity and unathleticism of their owners. You know it's sad when a llama, the dorkiest of pets, thinks that you are a dork. <br />
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During the water races, one of the llamas (which had been tied to a beach chair during the race since he wasn't participating...he probably had asthma) took off down the beach, still leashed to the beach chair, and dragging it in tow. The Dolly Llama had to chase after the thing down the beach for a few feet. That was probably the most exciting moment of that poor llamas life. <br />
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While all of this is going on, and while I am still in disbelief at what I am seeing, it hits me...I don't have my camera with me!!<br />
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Now, my friends can vouch for me on this...I ALWAYS have my camera with me. ALWAYS. I bring it to even the most mundane events, trips, get-togethers, etc. Because I never know when something awesome will happen that I'll want a picture of. I bring my camera everywhere. <br />
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Except for this day. <br />
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So here I am, on the beach, witnessing this remarkably ridiculous spectacle, and I don't have a camera to even prove it. <br />
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An hour went by as I watched the llamas, stewing over the fact that I would have no proof. An hour. Then I decided to do something about it. <br />
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I found a tourist on the beach. She had a camera. Her name was Cathy. Cathy was now going to be my new best friend. :) <br />
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Cathy agreed to take pics of the llamas for me and email them after she got back from her vacation, so I could show you all after writing my blog. <br />
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Cathy also suggested that she take a picture of me WITH the llamas. Cathy was now no longer my best friend. <br />
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I was terrified of the llamas. Did I mention that earlier? My bad. Yeah, they are creepy. Right up there with clowns, mimes, and marionette dolls. Llamas are creepy. <br />
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<em>"Go on up there and I'll get a picture of you with the big one!",</em> Cathy, my ex-bestfriend says. <br />
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Now, I can't tell her no and be mean to her, because if I don't do what she says, then I won't get my pics. I was going to have to take one for the team. (And by "team", I mean you, my dear readers. So you best recognize the agony I went through for you!)<br />
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So, here I am, next to the biggest, nastiest llama on the beach that day. I thought he was going to tear my arm off. Or at least spit in my eye. But I survived, and here are the pics to prove it. Enjoy. <br />
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Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-44245423158618310372010-11-25T11:30:00.000-05:002010-11-25T11:30:08.777-05:00Kidney Stones are made from secrets. And embarassment.If you've ever wondered what Kidney Stones are made from, it is 1/4 Secrets, and 3/4 embarassment. <br />
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Last weekend, my baby brother was coming to town. We had schemed and planned and plotted, all the while keeping my mom in the dark about it. He was supposed to arrive at my house around 430 on Sunday, so of course and hour before that the kidneys decided they were going to act up. <br />
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330pm Sunday: Sharp, sudden pain in my kidneys. <em>Oh HECK no!</em> I breathe through it, pacing back and forth in my room like a pregnant woman in labor. <em>Nope, not the kidneys. Not today. This is just some weird flukey cramp. </em><br />
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430pm Sunday: .Brother arrives. Mamma is totally surprised. Brother and sister scheming totally worked. Let the awesomeness commence. Home cooking. Looking through old photos. Bizarre inside family jokes centered around Labyrinth and Predator commence. <br />
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730pm Sunday: Boyfriend arrives to meet brother for the first time. I'm trying to hide how much pain I am in, and all I desperately want to do is lay down on the sofa. At which point, Brother and Boyfriend decide they are now BFF's and are going to have <strong>The Farting Contest of All Farting Contests</strong> on the sofa I'm trying to lay down on. Thanks, boys. Really. <br />
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Monday: Brother stuck around for breakfast, then left in the afternoon. By the time he hit the road, and by the time Mamma C headed to work, the kidneys were in full outrage. I can pretty much hear them screaming at me by this point. <em>How dare you ignore us for a full 24 hours! You will pay, Host Body. You will pay!</em><br />
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3:30 Monday: Things were bad now. Kidneys were contracting hard core. Had to call Boyfriend to drive me to the E.R. <br />
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(Now, I've had kidney issues for 10 years, but this is the <strong>first</strong> time Boyfriend has experienced it with me.) We get to the ER. Things are feeling really bad. They finally take me from the waiting are to a stretcher in the ER. A male nurse hands me a hospital gown, and says he will be back in a minute once I am undressed. <br />
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Awesome. <br />
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Doubled-over in pain. Delirious from the 24 straight hours of kidney contractions. And now Boyfriend gets to see me in a hospital "<em>gown</em>". <br />
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THIS is a gown...<br />
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THIS is not....<br />
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Also, since I was entrenched in my No Shave November-ness, I had 22 days worth of glorious growth on my legs. Nothing says "hot" like hairy legs, black ankle socks, and a hospital gown big enough to contain Chris Farley. <br />
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<em>"You know, other people have worn these gowns. Sick people wear them, then the hospital washes them and gives them to other patients."</em><br />
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Boyfriend: I know.<br />
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<em>"They die in them, too. Someone has probably died in this thing." </em><br />
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Boyfriend: Yes. Probably. <br />
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<em>"Hurry up and pull that sheet over my legs so you can't see my fur."</em><br />
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I was totally the sexiest he had ever seen me. I thought things could not get any hotter. <br />
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I was wrong. <br />
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Urine sample time. <br />
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I peed in the cup, passed a kidney stone in the process, and twisted the lid back on the sample. I tried desperately to wrap some papertowels around the cup of pee, trying to hide the contents from view, to no avail. Those hospital paper towels are made from cardboard. Hobbling out of the bathroom back onto the stretcher, I plop the urine sample down on the table. <br />
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<em>Don't look at that. </em><br />
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Boyfriend: What is it?<br />
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<em>My pee. Just don't look at it. </em><br />
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Boyfriend: You're crazy. <br />
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<em>You've already seen my blood (thank you, Wisdom Teeth). And my vomit (on the first date, nonetheless). This is the one thing I have left. Please. </em><br />
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Boyfriend: Okay weirdo. <br />
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Then the I.V. of Dilauded pain medicine came. And all the sudden the pain went away. And the worrying about anyone seeing my fur or my pee went away. And one of the last thoughts I remember before they wheeled me down to the CAT Scan was simply this...<br />
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<em>I'm glad he's here. Holding my hand through the bars of the stretcher. Not caring about my pee or my leg fur. Just caring about me.</em> <br />
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So with one less kidney stone, and one more person to be thankful for this year, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Feel free to tell me what YOU are thankful for this Thanksgiving Season in the comments section. <br />
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Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-69077491071795649462010-11-18T10:10:00.000-05:002010-11-18T10:10:12.648-05:00Are You My Apple?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWJ6bzKUXmI7Yty__0LFt418YePTIMlvItQWHNAmpgGfr-ZRMuNlLLtFjllUHNbrGBW1x_KXA7zdCfi3zcqas0R35aCrLdVyuGxvjtQ6seOFLDhhEHiV3Z4o44i63f6GLMu0KJTWCn9A/s1600/Publication1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTWJ6bzKUXmI7Yty__0LFt418YePTIMlvItQWHNAmpgGfr-ZRMuNlLLtFjllUHNbrGBW1x_KXA7zdCfi3zcqas0R35aCrLdVyuGxvjtQ6seOFLDhhEHiV3Z4o44i63f6GLMu0KJTWCn9A/s400/Publication1.jpg" width="287" /></a></div><br />
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**(Again, this is an old post that I am importing to this new site. Thanks for hanging in there while I clean-up the blogosphere).**<br />
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Okay, you’re gonna find out two things about me in this blog...(neither of them should surprise you.) <br />
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1) I’m a jerk. <br />
2) I break my own rules. As a rule. (Wait, then doesn’t that mean that I <u>don’t </u>break my own rules?) <br />
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Okay, so I happen to work with a bunch of people who have not too much respect for anyone else in our office. I mean, they’re nice enough, and they speak to eachother respectfully, and they don’t screw you over at work with stuff that’s not your responsibility...no, they’re not THAT kind of disrespectful. <br />
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They are a WHOLE OTHER LEVEL of disrespect...a level where people who are THIS disrespectful are reserved a special suite in Hell, along with child molesters, fire starters, and people who stick chewed up gum under conference room tables. <br />
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They own the kind of disrespect that makes it okay in their mind to eat <u>someone else’s food</u> out of the office fridge. <br />
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I know, I know---I’ll give you a minute to collect your jaw from the floor...it truly is a HORRIFYING sin, so for those of you who are prone to fainting, I’ll wait until you’ve collected your smelling salts before I continue. <br />
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....you ready yet? <br />
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Okay, cool. On with it. <br />
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So, my office peeps have this condemning habit of eating other people’s stuff in the office fridge, that they KNOW isn’t their own food.I put up with it at first, because I was new, and didn’t want to make waves (wait, that doesn’t sound like me.) Ohhh yeah, that’s right, I put up with it at first because I was blinded by the giddyness of having a new job that I didn’t care if they stored monkey poop in that fridge of ours. <br />
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But, the honeymoon phase has ended, and I have grown tired of people eating/drinking my stuff. <br />
So, like the jerk I am...I made a sign. <br />
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Now, you all know those people in your office, ’cuz every office has at least one person like this...THE SIGN MAKER. <br />
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They make signs for everything...they put instructions on the fax machine so you don’t have to "bother" them and ask how to work it; they make signs on the light switches, reading "Please Shut Off At Night"; they make signs on their office doors that say "Please Knock First"; they make little mini-sticker-signs on ALL of their pens, so no one will steal them from them. You know who I’m talking about. <br />
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Yeah, I know, I hate those sign-makers, too. <br />
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But, I have now had to join forces with the Sign-Makers, and make a sign of my own. <br />
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A few months ago, there was an "episode" in my office, involving one particular can of Diet Coke ( I won’t bore you with the story here, because most of my poor friends had to already listen to me have verbal diarrhea about it for a week), but anyway, if you know me, you know that you can do just about anything to me and we’ll still be friends (I’m resiliant like that), but if you touch my Diet Coke, it is WAR. <br />
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And not the kind of friendly war where I send my troops over to your country to fight, but in their free time they pass out Beanie Babies and immunization shots to all the local kids. <br />
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No no. <br />
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I mean the kind of war where in my soldiers free time, they are encouraged to pass out infested blankets and pee on national monuments. Yyyeah. THAT kind of war. <br />
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So, like I said...someone messed with my Diet Coke. Okay, it’s on. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtnO0zOne7TYLRh-AxOleCxwZCvvMJo4lR0KZoSjIP1gD01UzvffrzadNlM2owQGG0fSBjBPDUs1fVwpmkRu0p01rEjgqJYNgBLtxsGWSaROhvdz1WDfDTTJbKPWWOdNHXsq7jUFxlPg/s1600/fridge+sign.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtnO0zOne7TYLRh-AxOleCxwZCvvMJo4lR0KZoSjIP1gD01UzvffrzadNlM2owQGG0fSBjBPDUs1fVwpmkRu0p01rEjgqJYNgBLtxsGWSaROhvdz1WDfDTTJbKPWWOdNHXsq7jUFxlPg/s400/fridge+sign.bmp" width="332" /></a></div>After the battle between my coworker and myself had ended, I had to submit to my hatred of sign-makers, and join in their endeavor...I had to make a sign.<br />
<br />
That sign was created 3 months ago, and all has been well so far. <br />
<br />
Until today. <br />
<br />
Today, I’m hungry. <br />
<br />
And I can’t remember if that red apple in there is mine or not. <br />
<br />
I think it’s mine, because I have the tendancy to not eat my entire lunch, so I’ll always have a yogurt or fruit leftover to have for breakfast the next day. <br />
<br />
And I also think it’s mine, because I know for a fact that at home right now, there is an entire bag of Fuji apples that have that same "4131" sticker on them. <br />
<br />
BUT, I’m not 100% sure. <br />
<br />
And I am 100% hungry. <br />
<br />
Now, I don’t know how the Food Sticker Industry works. Do ALL Fuji apples everywhere bear the "4131" stamp? Because if so, then I can’t touch the apple...the risk is too great that it belongs to someone else. <br />
<br />
BUT---If the "4131" is signifying a particular batch of apples, then the chances are HUGE that it is, in fact, MY apple, and that I can eat it without breaking my own established rule. <br />
<br />
<br />
Ohhhhhhhhh, what would Snow White do? <br />
<br />
<br />
Would she eat it? <br />
<br />
<br />
Heck yes she would! That hungry little snipe ate apples offered by a crotchety, wart-riddled, stranger in the middle of the woods! <br />
<br />
I know there’s supposed to be one angel on my left shoulder, and one little devil on my right. Okay, check! I’ve got that going for me. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd34ULLz5Anl8ZKFTPgi31PCFzMKmWdkuu-Y3Q8yZvBJp_NbvXtH-rW1L3gcWWf_ngjUK6_igOpkRZ24VjIPGk4QybHdK_82obQrku4b3kNDz_qRyWVHednKhGxtuufBFQpAAOu2pluWY/s1600/angelsdemons.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd34ULLz5Anl8ZKFTPgi31PCFzMKmWdkuu-Y3Q8yZvBJp_NbvXtH-rW1L3gcWWf_ngjUK6_igOpkRZ24VjIPGk4QybHdK_82obQrku4b3kNDz_qRyWVHednKhGxtuufBFQpAAOu2pluWY/s400/angelsdemons.bmp" width="400" /></a></div>BUT, they both look pretty hungry. I mean- what kind of person would I be if I starved an imaginary angel? <br />
<br />
<br />
Then again, what kind of person would I be if I fed an imaginary devil? <br />
<br />
OH 4131.....WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WHAT DO YOU SIGNIFY? <br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, I’ve made my decision...<br />
<br />
If that apple sticker had "666" on it...then I TOTALLY wouldn’t eat it. <br />
<br />
BUT, it doesn’t. <br />
<br />
So I’m chowing down. <br />
<br />
<br />
And possibly breaking my own rule. <br />
<br />
Or possibly adhering to my own rule. <br />
<br />
Who knows. But I’m hungry. And when a big girl is hungry, we can rationalize anything...even stealing (or not stealing) fruit that isn’t ours (or really is ours.) <br />
<br />
<br />
I’m heading to the fridge....<br />
<br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-73771184795757368912010-11-16T09:04:00.000-05:002010-11-16T09:04:41.165-05:00The Time We Accidentally Joined a Cult<em>**(This is another import from my old blog)**</em><br />
<br />
So, waaaaaaaaay back in high school, my bestest bud Brandon and I were "office assistants" in the Guidance Office. Which basically meant for an entire period we got to pretend we were helping out the guidance counselors, but in reality it was a free pass to do bad stuff and get away with it because the guidance counselor secretaries loved us to pieces. They were your classic high school secretaries....old, gray-haired, outdated glasses, hearts of gold, and a little slow on the uptake. Perfect for truancy-terrorists like us. <br />
<br />
And thanks to them, this blog is about the time Brandon and I accidentally joined a cult, all thanks to the 'guidance' of our guidance counselors. <br />
<br />
The guidance counselors approached Brandon and me one day and asked if we'd be interested in attending a luncheon to represent our high school. We were suspicious from the get-go. We definitely weren't the WORST kids in our high school. We went to school in Baltimore, which meant more than half of our fellow students already had a rap sheet. But we certainly weren't the BEST students, either. We wouldn't be your top pick as "representatives" for our school. Something was up...<br />
<strong>Counselor:</strong> Hey guys, would you be interested in attending a lunch on CHS's behalf? <br />
<strong>Brandon and Me:</strong> Um, you just need us to go to a lunch?<br />
<strong>Counselor:</strong> Yeah, it would be you and a couple other seniors, plus the Vice Principal. <br />
<strong>B and Me:</strong> And the catch is...?<br />
<strong>Counselor:</strong> No catch. You just get to go to Martin's West (which was a la-dee-da kind of reception hall in Baltimore), have a free lunch, and do it all on school time. You'll get out of all of your classes that day. <br />
<strong>B and Me:</strong> Sweet, we're in. <br />
<br />
So a few weeks later, Brandon, myself, and a few other seniors show up at this lunch. We get to our assigned table, find our V.P. and the other kids, take our seats, make small talk, etc. (By the way, making small talk with the Vice Principal at your school when you're 16 years old...sUper uncomfortable.) <br />
<br />
Before lunch is served, the host of the lunch gets up to the podium and asks us all to bow our heads to say grace before we eat. Now, those of you reading this who grew up in the South will think nothing of this. But to all my friends from back home in Baltimore, you'll understand that this just IS NOT DONE in the public school systems at all. I mean, people up North don't just go around willy nilly bowing their heads and thanking God for things out loud and in public. So that was weird activity number one. <br />
<br />
Here comes weird activity number two....<br />
<br />
We get through the prayer, and the emcee asks us all to stand while we sing along together. I'm thinking to myself, <em>"Sing...What the?...What is going on here...I thought all we had to do was show up and eat lunch, now we're singing <strong><u>and</u></strong> praying. Too weird." </em><br />
<br />
So Brandon and I throw each other a sideways glance, and sing along to the song as best we can. It's a song that NEITHER of us had ever heard, so we fudged and slurred our way through it as best we could, while trying not to laugh and piss off our Vice Principal. The song was something about Johnny Appleseed... which I managed to find online (God Bless Google), so <a href="http://www.dltk-kids.com/crafts/miscellaneous/johnny_appleseed_grace.htm">here</a> it is. How did that song relate to what we were doing there that day???? Good question. I have no idea. <br />
<br />
So forever goes by, and we finally finish with all the praying and singing and whatnot, and they have us eat lunch. <br />
<br />
Just when I'm thinking I'm free to leave and skip school for the rest of the day, the speaker asks us all to stand at our tables, raise our right hands and repeat after him...oh geez, here comes weird activity number 3. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJzJarzj8u_z8pRUtCK7G_OXerth6zGc5DJaFllEKEVl4i4BsEbyFWWq8AywehY3Muq-m2PO4aQD3a44hVbWLjNilIk9LgNga_kEPsVP77f87x_gtS1l4WCv6Kjol4PkAw_7IeYalu13o/s1600/cult.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJzJarzj8u_z8pRUtCK7G_OXerth6zGc5DJaFllEKEVl4i4BsEbyFWWq8AywehY3Muq-m2PO4aQD3a44hVbWLjNilIk9LgNga_kEPsVP77f87x_gtS1l4WCv6Kjol4PkAw_7IeYalu13o/s320/cult.bmp" width="320" /></a></div><br />
So before I knew it, there was a room full of hundreds of high school kids, all taking some kind of oath or vow together, and I hadn't been paying enough attention to realize what was even going on. But there I stood, right hand in air, repeating whatever words were up on the screen. <br />
<br />
Next thing I knew the speaker was congratulating us on becoming Rotarians, and we were given a membership card and everything.<em> "Thanks for coming today, we had a wonderful time meeting you all, you are dismissed." </em><br />
<br />
So, Brandon and I walk out to the parking log, get in the car, look at each other, and say "What the heck is a Rotarian? And what just happened in there?"<br />
<br />
Our guidance counselors duped us!!! They were supposed to be there to guide us and shed light on our indecisions, and there we were, accidentally joining some group called the "Rotarians", thanks to their "guidance". <br />
<br />
I was sure that after I got home that night I would realize that the food was poisoned and I would die in my sleep, along with all the other hundreds of kids who were tricked into becoming Rotarians that day. Man, that would really make for a story. <br />
<br />
Instead, all I have is this old faded membership card, and an anticlimactic story about accidentally joining a cult, which turns out to not really be a cult at all. <br />
<br />
Man, it's amazing what Americans will do for a free meal ticket. <br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
Andy (Junior Rotarian)Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-19509391795909504672010-11-15T13:17:00.000-05:002010-11-15T13:17:18.755-05:00Embarrassment Illustrated<em>***(Hey all, I am shutting down my old blog site, so I'm transferring a few oldies from there to this site. Some of you might have read this before.)***</em><br />
<u> </u><br />
<br />
Okay, so I had to go into the doctor the other day for some tests and whatnot. And I don't want to get on a soapbox about how <em>"Men have no idea what it is like to be a woman"</em> and what not, but seriously....<strong>Men have NO idea! </strong><br />
<br />
Being conscious during a pelvic procedure is totally torturesome. As if FEELING the procedure isn't enough, we also get to HEAR every thing going on. Sounds of metal scraping. The noise of the expandable tools clicking into place. We get to SEE exactly what they are putting in and taking out of us thanks to that perfectly eye-level tray of implements. And the doctor usually TALKS through the entire procedure. I just want to scream to him <em>"Hey down there! Cut it out! If I wanted a play by play of my colposcopy I would have brought John Madden along with me. I'm trying to force myself into an out-of-body experience, and all of your jibba-jabba is distracting me!"</em> I always tell myself I will follow through and shout this out to the Coochie Doctor, but believe me, the one dude you absolutely do <u>not</u> want to piss off is someone who will be digging around in your vajajay for the next hour. <br />
<br />
Like every totally healthy girl, I like to mask my fear with comedy. <em>(I know, I'm super mature, right?). </em>So without further adieu while I wait for the test results, I wanted to share with you my illustration of Tuesday's events. And, for extra entertainment, I included a chart, which will show you my new theory. It is the <strong>"Love for My Vagina"</strong> chart, and it shows the direct relationship of love for my vagina to the amount of exposure time. It's really scientific and compelling stuff. I expect my honorary degree from Princeton to arrive any day now. <em>(I hand-drew the chart first, then my buddy Rob made it look all official and whatnot for me...cuz that is what good friends with Graphic Design degrees do for you...they make graphs about your vagina.)</em><br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
Andy<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXO_XSzIn8IzJ53dZCRa9fBlR214ZAbRjmxZq1H6IgLafrKO6LLSXU6jf7K_vk-XbQSRVjm0u5LQ7iZW8xiDDJIJze6yjPXBTIEYddPBXDtyfL564CfhmUHsMnv-F9T_NCDDQEhDDdAe4/s1600/illustration.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="594" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXO_XSzIn8IzJ53dZCRa9fBlR214ZAbRjmxZq1H6IgLafrKO6LLSXU6jf7K_vk-XbQSRVjm0u5LQ7iZW8xiDDJIJze6yjPXBTIEYddPBXDtyfL564CfhmUHsMnv-F9T_NCDDQEhDDdAe4/s640/illustration.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8cmDsg3D4NYNsYdmuGIbc1FgFfmS00MEM7HbrC67nauxdIlk6Zk64edmfmB-wtMjb2_w0rucoGw6365sX7T6JQ1h6vbSxbiWYWGIwmjQ6zcqm8iuTqPsb2aAxSNgeE-aaPdgNcsXRME/s1600/handdrawn+chart.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_8cmDsg3D4NYNsYdmuGIbc1FgFfmS00MEM7HbrC67nauxdIlk6Zk64edmfmB-wtMjb2_w0rucoGw6365sX7T6JQ1h6vbSxbiWYWGIwmjQ6zcqm8iuTqPsb2aAxSNgeE-aaPdgNcsXRME/s640/handdrawn+chart.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKA6ux8bBqGmkw3Lrefwj0AKSIVBFULo1KObki0z7or1n9SArJ7lUIddw6hVmRt-SHczyifW33r1yoaenoBjXj1AEwJnuUpnMArnpQfzQpMDcYIGmrTL-8scCDnJWZLkB5bRlNd-YvuE/s1600/graph.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="528" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKA6ux8bBqGmkw3Lrefwj0AKSIVBFULo1KObki0z7or1n9SArJ7lUIddw6hVmRt-SHczyifW33r1yoaenoBjXj1AEwJnuUpnMArnpQfzQpMDcYIGmrTL-8scCDnJWZLkB5bRlNd-YvuE/s640/graph.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-22204885909292605142010-11-11T10:38:00.000-05:002010-11-11T10:38:53.356-05:00I need Wisdom Teeth like I need 4 new holes in my head (oh wait...)It is no surprise I recently had all 4 of my wisdom teeth removed. I whined about it to anyone who would listen, and basically gave a play-by-play of the aftermath going on in my mouth through my Facebook status updates. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Long story short...it was awful. Majorly impacted. Sinus cavities penetrated. Week and a half off of work to recover. Shards of jaw bone working their way through my gums. It was gnarly. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But, I won't bore you with the details. I'll just bore you with the funny stuff that happened during my "recovery" (which felt more like assault and battery, but whose counting stitches?)</div><br />
<strong><u>Story #1 </u></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Leaving the surgeon's office directly after the procedure, my mouth was shoved full of gauze to soak up the bleeding. The problem was that we had to drive 20 minutes to get to my pharmacist to fill the prescriptions, and then sit in the drive-thru pharmacy line for another 10 minutes. We learned very quickly that gauze is finite, and will only hold a certain amount of blood. After that, you're on your own. So sitting in the passenger seat, waiting patiently for the drive-thru drug-giver to dole us out the goodies, it all went down. Blood started pouring out of my mouth. It was running down my chin. Dripping onto my shirt. I was gagging from swallowing so much of it. At one point I started to spit it onto the floor of the truck. Combine this with the spaced-out after effects of the anesthesia and you can imagine the sight. Head lolling to one side. Blood and drool spewing from my mouth. Eyes unable to stay open and focused. Moaning loudly and incoherently. That's right, dear Pharmacist...the Zombie Apocalypse is upon us. Now give me the stinkin' drugs or I will come through that giant glass window and start nomming at your brains. <br />
<br />
<strong><u>Story #2</u></strong><br />
So Boyfriend had been planning on coming over to check on me after the surgery. He tried to make it sound all <em>"Oh sweetie, I just want to check on you and make sure you're okay"</em>, but really I know he was really just hoping to get a good laugh out of my post-anesthesia daze and to probably make fun of my chipmunk cheeks. When I got home from surgery, thanks to the anesthesia making me cra-cra-crazy, I became very worried about him coming over and making sure everything was "just so". (Sooooooo not me, right?!) I couldn't talk, but started to scrawl little nuggets of nuttiness to my mother about him coming over. Here is one of my favorites...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqLdV5Y2FtXdGFBuP0z__1XURxn856N5Mk2cVNHiH_ULxMaI7TjCjlRmlP8aIKBif7h2gTZ7ABjG-rQFuZioP_3N7ik2fQqp5jrv7xqTf58jJS5dNeJbBuBMyaTJgcEJf_Nn44NkNAmQ/s1600/potty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqLdV5Y2FtXdGFBuP0z__1XURxn856N5Mk2cVNHiH_ULxMaI7TjCjlRmlP8aIKBif7h2gTZ7ABjG-rQFuZioP_3N7ik2fQqp5jrv7xqTf58jJS5dNeJbBuBMyaTJgcEJf_Nn44NkNAmQ/s320/potty.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Clearly, bathroom reading material had become enough of a warped-concern for me that I went to the energy and effort of putting some books on the back of the toilet tank so that if Boyfriend had to use the bathroom while he was visiting he would have something to read. Cuz that's a normal priority when you are fresh out of surgery, right? Also, "potty"? Really? <br />
<br />
<strong><u>Story #3</u></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
I had finally settled down into my favorite cushion crack of the sofa, and we were watching TV later that night. Still fighting the anesthesia, and now my loopiness is compounded by the fistful of drugs I was prescribed. I remember the E! True Hollywood Story of Dog the Bounty Hunter was on TV (seriously, why?). I started pointing to everyone who popped up on the screen, saying <em>"You get a divorce!"</em>, <em>"<strong>YOU </strong>get a divorce,"</em> <em>"<strong>AND YOU</strong> get a divorce!"</em>, but in the Oprah <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XcI-rHO0yko">"You get a car"</a> voice. I don't even like Oprah. Or Dog the Bounty Hunter. Or divorce. But apparently the drugs loooooved that combination. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Story #4</u></strong><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5EQImFQYr_IUKKLC_rv-YR1zoeqDn9lcpsqfCEdeDX9jRAdZD4a9ABOT2C2NYodpf1odLCQSLlpjYqVz0nSUBOdZGklVYtRbfL_ch2MffHTbIBplZ-F7FQgAs-RAnRVhkMF2_ldw4-U/s1600/SKMBT_C35310102815370.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ5EQImFQYr_IUKKLC_rv-YR1zoeqDn9lcpsqfCEdeDX9jRAdZD4a9ABOT2C2NYodpf1odLCQSLlpjYqVz0nSUBOdZGklVYtRbfL_ch2MffHTbIBplZ-F7FQgAs-RAnRVhkMF2_ldw4-U/s320/SKMBT_C35310102815370.jpg" width="318" /></a><br />
Another note from that night...this time written to Boyfriend. <br />
<br />
Why the heck was I trying to give away the ice cream in my house?!?!? That ice cream was specifically bought for me! And since when does my brain use the word "sammies" instead of "sandwiches"? Apparently I become Rachel Ray when I'm on drugs. <br />
<br />
The next time I am playing nurse for one of my recently-recovered friends, you can bet I will be expecting bathroom reading material and ice cream sammies, or I am SOOOOO walking! <br />
<br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-5895661399334006152010-11-08T16:58:00.000-05:002010-11-08T16:58:42.754-05:00There is not enough Listerine in all the world<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Sadly, this is a true story. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As many of you know, I work in an environment where 99% of the people I come in contact with on a daily basis are an average age of 83. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Old people...God love 'em. They are close talkers. And butt pinchers. And heavy perfume wearers. And oblivious farters. These are just some of the precious facets I get to see every day. <br />
<br />
One day in particular will live on in infamy on my <strong>Top 5 Worst Things That Have Happened At Work List</strong>. In my head, I have deemed this incident "Old Man Cookie Mouth". <br />
<br />
Explain, you ask? <br />
<br />
Why certainly...<br />
<br />
Scene: Me at the office.<br />
<br />
Setting: Tra la la, life is good, minding my own business, ready to head out for my lunch break, happy as a clam. No, scratch that. Happier than a clam! I don't know many clams that look that happy. Unl<a href="http://www.kilmerhouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/listerine-1924-bottle3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="http://www.kilmerhouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/02/listerine-1924-bottle3.jpg" width="232" /></a>ess they have a pearl inside them...then they would be GIDDY, right? Oh wait, that's oysters. Never mind. Let's just say I'm fairly happy. Somewhere in between a clam and an oyster, on the mollusk scale of happiness. <br />
<br />
I exit my office suite and into the hall to make my way to the elevator. The hall is jam packed with all the old folks though. They had just gotten out of a class, and were milling around catching up on each other's medications and aches and "Guess who died?"'s. <br />
<br />
I can do this, I thought. I can totally weave in between the conversations without being noticed and make my way to my car without getting trapped. Just be fast. Like a cheetah. But don't knock anyone over with a cane. Easy now. Steaaaaady. Steaaaaaady. <br />
<br />
<em>"Andy, my dear!"</em><br />
<br />
Crap. <br />
<br />
"Emmett, I'm just on my way out." <br />
<br />
<em>"Andy, the committee met and asked me to approach you and see if we could possibly switch from the powdered creamer to the liquid creamer? That stuff tastes like drywall dust."</em><br />
<br />
Oh em gee. Is this conversation really going to suck up 5 precious minutes of my lunch break? And why do they have to stand so close to you when they talk? Ugh. Close Talkers. <br />
<br />
He moves to bring a cookie to his mouth and I take the opportunity to answer quickly then try and bolt before he can speak again. <br />
<br />
"Sure, Emmett, I will see what the budget..."<br />
<br />
<em>"Andy, don't talk to me about budgets..."</em><br />
<br />
And as he interrupted me, my mouth was still open, trying to finish my sentence when all of the sudden, a chewed up piece of cookie came flying at me from his denture-cream glopped up mouth and landed directly on my tongue!!!!!<br />
<br />
OH EM GEE WHAT THE CRAP IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING SICK SICK SICK GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT!<br />
<br />
I am no statistician. In fact, I had to google how to spell 'statistician'. But I'm pretty sure the odds of someone spitting something out of their mouth and having it land directly in yours is, like, 1 in 468,933,246 or something like that. <br />
<br />
I ran through the hall, spitting out what I could onto the carpet as I made my way down the stairs. No time to wait for an elevator at a time like this. <br />
<br />
OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH OH MY GOSH GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT SICK DUDE SICK SICK SICK SICK. <br />
<br />
Ran to my car, sped to the nearest CVS, where I promptly bought a king-sized bottle of Listerine. And not that nice, alcohol-free stuff that you would want to use when swishing at home. I'm talking about the old school, burn your entire palette, fresh breath for the next 2 months kind of Listerine. <br />
<br />
I went out to the parking lot, sat in the drivers seat with the car door wide open into the empty parking space next to me, and cracked that bad boy open. I went through the entire bottle. Swishing. Gargling. Spitting it out into the pavement. I even swallowed some for good measure (and possibly hoping it would burn a hole in the memory cortex of my brain so I could forget this nightmare forever and ever Amen).<br />
<br />
I must have looked like one of those sad drunks who can't afford alcohol so they get their buzz on mouthwash to make it through the day. All I needed was the paper bag around the bottle. <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And THAT, my friends, is how I spent an hour of my life that day. Washing the remnants of Old Man Cookie Mouth out of my mouth. Wondering how I got here in life. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">***********************************</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Wanna kiss? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-9232774027308399752010-11-08T10:49:00.002-05:002010-11-08T11:54:19.101-05:00I wish I was making this up...<strong>Boss</strong> <em>(who is perpetually late):</em> Oh sorry, I'm running late this morning. I forgot to set my clocks back, can you believe it?<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> Shouldn't you be early then, and not late? <br />
<br />
<strong>Boss:</strong> (crickets chirping)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbQ2bf7SAJNOmV3kTll_qsJFOh1Q_zz9KeU6MyU01bcKwanagB4x8zPSdtboHDJVbaJwwtDNB82YM-qyzyOAMGWf_lmUuJIzm1qMR8gtau15RFNoi42DJc2Va7Qky8VanMkytnzcFMQ0/s1600/confused-full.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbQ2bf7SAJNOmV3kTll_qsJFOh1Q_zz9KeU6MyU01bcKwanagB4x8zPSdtboHDJVbaJwwtDNB82YM-qyzyOAMGWf_lmUuJIzm1qMR8gtau15RFNoi42DJc2Va7Qky8VanMkytnzcFMQ0/s320/confused-full.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>I just have to keep reminding myself that I am thankful that I have a job. <br />
<br />
Also, I think I'm going to turn all of these weird things my boss says into a series on here. Gotta come up with a catchy title first. Hmmmmm....Stay tuned.Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-31903682369818135012010-11-04T13:02:00.001-04:002010-11-04T13:04:35.669-04:00Fear and Loathing in NovemberAs most of you know, I try to have the fewest things I am obligated to in my life at all times. I went through this whole life-altering realization a few years ago that I did waaaay too many things out of obligation and guilt, and that it was going to stop immediately. <br />
<br />
Surprisingly, I have been doing amazingly well with this for the past few years. I have been able to keep my calendar mostly balanced, with the occasional blip here and there. <br />
<br />
Until November. <br />
<br />
What the frig happened to my November?!<br />
<br />
<strong>Crazy Idea #1: Somehow, I decided it would be awesome to take a "Conversational French" class every Tuesday night in November. </strong><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>(One important thing to note: The full extent of my knowledge of the French language comes from reading </em></span><a href="http://www.eloisewebsite.com/"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Eloise</em></span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em> books, having an uncontrollable obsession with all of the French movies that Gérard Depardieu has been in, and love love loving </em></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leslie_Caron"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>Leslie Caron</em></span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>. What the heck was I thinking?)</em> <span style="font-size: small;">Here is the extent of what I learned after one session of the class... "Conversational" ≠ "Beginner". They are two VERY different things. Also, French is NOT Spanish. I had 6 years of Spanish under my belt...I figured I would totes be able to pick up French in un minuto. Wrooooong! I spent 2 hours avoiding eye contact with the teacher in the fear I would be called on. And also spent two hours feeling like I was 16 again, but not in the fun <em>"Hey look, I have perky boobs again"</em> kind of way. More the <em>"Omg, I haven't done my homework in 2 weeks, I hope that doesn't show up on my report card, my mom will kill me"</em> kind of way. </span></span><br />
<br />
<strong>Crazy Idea #2: Starting the </strong><a href="http://www.fromcouchto5k.com/articles/training/the-couch-to-5k-training-plan/"><strong>Couch to 5K training plan</strong></a><strong>. </strong><br />
Oh man, even typing that out makes me crack up laughing. Those of you who know/have seen me, know I am not built to be a runner. I have fat knees that look really stupid in those running shorts. And super high arches. And ginormous boobs which will seriously poke me in the eyeball if they aren't strapped down with so much Duck Tape that I won't be able to breathe properly and will pass out before I get beyond my block of houses. But it sounded like a good idea at the time. And honestly, the first few weeks are not bad at all. Ask me again how I feel about this in a few weeks, and I might throw my Duck Tape-reinforced sports bra right at your naturally skinny face. <br />
<br />
<strong>Crazy Idea #5 <em><span style="font-size: x-small;">(I know, we skipped 3 & 4, but crazy ideas multiply exponentially...try to keep up)</span></em>: <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/node/3699214">NaNoWriMo.</a> </strong><br />
Basically, this is a writing exercise in production, with an emphasis on quantity over quality. It just frees you up to write write write write write and not get bogged down in the editing process too much. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in one month's time. Now, if you rock, you could pump out 1,666 words a day and it would be a cake walk. That is, if you have time EVERY DAY to write. Which is a laugh. Especially since I have already signed up for the Couchto5K and the Conversational French class. So basically my Sunday through Wednesdays are completely booked and zero words will get written. Which leaves me with Thursday, Friday, and Saturday to write 4,166 words each day. But let's be honest....Thursday is the first night all week that I get home before 10pm. That night will clearly have to be used for laundry, plucking my eyebrows, pretending I have enough money in my bank account to clear all the checks I have to write to pay my bills, and in general vegging on the couch and trying to regain some semblance of sanity before I pass out on the sofa around 830pm and drool all over my favorite pillow. So that really leaves Friday and Saturday. Which would mean 6,250 words each of those days. But come on. You know Boyfriend and I are going to want to do something fun on either Friday or Saturday night. (Which basically means staying at home to watch UFC on the television and eating frozen pizzas because we are both super broke lately.) But still, we have fun. And fun is NECESSARY for sanity. So that kind of leaves me with one single solitary day a week that I might possibly eek out some writing if I am very lucky and wake up super early and the stars all align and there isn't a marathon of America's Next Top Model showing on TV. So yyyyyyeah, I'm thinking 50,000 words just aren't going to happen. I will be lucky if i get 5,000. But hey, it is all for fun and exercise. So I'm all in. <br />
<br />
<strong>Crazy Idea #25: Give up soda during the week, forcing myself to only drink water or juice.</strong> <br />
I am allowing myself one soda on Sundays before I have to jump in a room where I am responsible for 20 children, all three years old (or maybe younger). (Okay, clearly I must have bumped my head while doing my Couch to 5K run. This is the worst idea EVER!) Caffeine is SO needed to make it through my November. <br />
<br />
<strong>Crazy Idea #625: Agree to paint my boss's spare bedroom.</strong><br />
I seriously don't know how this one happened. One minute I was living a life where I would never have to darken the doorway of my boss' house ever. The next I had agreed to not only come to her personal home, but to provide a service. I must have been in a very exhausted, very broke place in life for me to agree to this. <em>(Also, bizarre side note: She is painting her spare bedroom the exact color of our offices. On purpose. Why would you EVER want to be sitting at home and be reminded of your office? I don't get it. Unless you are one of those people who just looooves their job because oh.em.gee. it is SO super great and fulfilling and honorable. And if that is the case, we are probably not friends, and you're probably not reading this blog.)</em><br />
<br />
So in light of these ridiculous projects I have already taken on this month, I am also going to add one more to the list...<br />
<br />
I am going to participate in <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=No%20Shave%20November">No Shave November</a>. Which actually is PERFECT timing, because it accomplishes two things: 1) Frees up exactly 12-20 minutes a week of my life to write/run/learn French/drink water/paint a room instead of shaving. Score for "found" time! And 2) Allows me to stay all warm and toasty since it has finally decided to start acting like Fall in my neck of the woods and things have gotten a little brisker. Plus, once my body hair starts to get reallllly long, we can compare who is the fuzziest, which will give Boyfriend and me something to do that is cheap and also <strike>gross </strike>entertaining. Score. <br />
<br />
Sooooo, all of that to say this...<br />
<br />
If during your morning commute, you see some furry-legged woman trying to run, all while she is listening to French lessons on her iPod, writing in a small journal, drinking something that looks like Coke out of her Deer Park water bottle and covered in paint splotches...Yyyyeah, that will be me. Hot, right? <br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-51463887012089657272010-07-20T15:40:00.000-04:002010-07-20T15:40:22.846-04:00Sssshhhh, do you hear that? It is my vagina ticking...I'm at that age (<em>twenty mufflemuffle-ish</em>) when <strong>ALL</strong> of my friends are either pregnant or have already popped a few out. I actually kind of like this stage for the most part. I get invited to super fun little kid birthday parties (<em>oh man, one was held at the firehouse and all the firemen came out and gave us tours and whatnot....tasty</em>), I get to play with all the cool new toys, and any time I feel my stupid biological clock starting to go into "alarm" mode, I just hang out with some of my friends' kids until they have one of those flailing on the floor and crying uncrontrollably meltdowns in aisle 12 of the grocery store...then I'm totally remedied of that <em>ohhh-but-they-are-so-cute-and-cuddly-and-i-want-one-inside-me-and-can-we-name-him-Jude-and-give-him-a-mohawk</em> phase. <br />
<br />
So yeah, for the most part, I totally dig this stage of my life. The whole "being the ousider because I don't have a kid yet" thing doesn't really bother me. <br />
<br />
Except for the whole <em>"Ohhhh, so you don't have any kids? (Insert super confused or frowny face here),"</em> that I hear <strong>constantly</strong> from people. They aren't saying it, but <strong>this </strong>is what they are assuming about you if you are a twenty mufflemuffle-ish year old woman and you haven't managed to get anything but Cinnabon's in that oven of yours...<br />
<br />
<strong>Assumption #1: You must hate kids, huh Andy?</strong> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://tshirtreviews.files.wordpress.com/2007/03/ihyk_store_image_closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" hw="true" src="http://tshirtreviews.files.wordpress.com/2007/03/ihyk_store_image_closeup.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Oh my gosh....SO not true. I stinkin' love them, okay? I spend hours of my life each week with children...voluntarily! I like how they are super honest. I like how they don't worry about what people think about them. I like their creativity. I like how they will totally pee on you if you are taking too long to change their diaper. I like how they can make an entire crappy day disappear with one giggle. I like how they pick their nose and eat their boogers in public. I like how they will repeat ANYTHING you tell them to say. I like when they slip up and tell me things about their mommy and daddy that they probably would prefer I not know. I stinkin' love kids, mkay? Just because I don't have one of my own doesn't mean I'm out there turning them into mice like those witches from that movie <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k0Li3BPTgQ">The Witches</a>. I love kids. Period. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://gift-a-hint.com/wp-content/uploads/wpsc/product_images/selfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" hw="true" src="http://gift-a-hint.com/wp-content/uploads/wpsc/product_images/selfish.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><strong>Assumption #2: You must be totally selfish, huh Andy?</strong><br />
Well, yes. Yes I am. But guess what? I have earned the right to be selfish. Not having kids means you get the following benefits as part of the package: being able to spend your money on whatever you want, not just braces, new clothes for them to wear to school, and 80 bags of diapers a year; getting to go wherever I want for vacation, instead of making sure it is child-friendly; getting to take road trips; staying up late and sleeping in; eating unbalanced meals....ALL of these glorious things are perks of not having children. So don't be angry at me because you can't go to Cancun for vacation anymore. And don't make faces at me when I say I ate marshmallows and poptarts for dinner. Don't hate. I'm trying to get all of this out of my system NOW so when/if I do have children, I won't be all bitter and disgruntled toward them. There are perks to having children, and there are perks to not having children. So just eeeeeease up on thinking we non-parents are selfish. <br />
<br />
<strong>Assumption #3: Ohhhh, she probably <em>can't </em>have kids. Poor thing.</strong> <br />
Whoah whoah whoah. Just because a woman hasn't tried to use her baby-making organs doesn't mean they don't work. Back up off our grills, okay? If one more granny-aged well-meaning cotton-headed lady asks me if "<em>Everything is in working order</em>," when I tell her I don't have kids, I might just snap and end up asking her the same question. Just because I'm not using my middle finger right now, doesn't mean it doesn't work. It just means I'm learning restraint. With my middle finger, and the rest of my body, thank you very much. <br />
<br />
<strong>So yeah, just to settle the dispute:</strong> <br />
1- I love kids.<br />
2- I'm allowed to be in the selfish phase of my life<br />
3- Ew...please don't think about whether certain organs in my body are in good working order. That is just creepy. <br />
<br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-51594273550079342072010-07-02T07:48:00.000-04:002010-07-02T07:48:50.601-04:00The Unlovely Bones (or Dada Stick, Mama Sticks)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Soooooo yyyyeah. Here are two things about human bodies: <br />
1. They are <em>incredibly</em> breakable.<br />
2. Also, <em>incredibly</em> difficult to put back together. <br />
(This highly enlightening biology moment brought to you by my 12th grade Paramed. Bio. teacher, who also happened to be incredibly racist....back me up on this, anyone reading this who went to Catonsville High School.) <br />
<br />
But, leave it to my sister to attempt to do both of those things. (Have I mentioned in the past that my sister, if she does anything else in the world, <strong>makes things happen</strong>?) Its true. Kenley says/thinks/demands soemthing to be done, and by God---it WILL be done.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJNQrnuTBrbNUF2rlvobjB5RH73y1gUt40hwuBlneQn5dmAj0SR5RbanpSS-wbJD-n2KLsp1Jm0_DMsHJ5UydmiZH7o2IeteMHWbTe1gTWAUnaLpn3dnPj2baiFhM8zrbpBgjJLrAAk5Q/s1600/31265_640575020766_40511994_37082582_5448049_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJNQrnuTBrbNUF2rlvobjB5RH73y1gUt40hwuBlneQn5dmAj0SR5RbanpSS-wbJD-n2KLsp1Jm0_DMsHJ5UydmiZH7o2IeteMHWbTe1gTWAUnaLpn3dnPj2baiFhM8zrbpBgjJLrAAk5Q/s320/31265_640575020766_40511994_37082582_5448049_n.jpg" /></a></div>I was down in Florida recently to go to a Local Natives concert (oh. my. gosh....you don't know who the Local Natives are??!!?? Only my most favoritist new band ever. <a href="http://www.thelocalnatives.com/">Check them out. Immediately</a>. You must.) The day I was supposed to leave to head back to good ole' Leland, NC my sister had a bad fall, and totally broke her kneecap. Like, in half. As one of the doctor's described it, "The pieces of your kneecap are currently in two different zipcodes." Sick, dude. <br />
<br />
<em>(Due to a pending lawsuit, I will not go into the details here of how/where she fell. But it involves a certain company that deals with Pets. And Marts. And well, you get it.)</em><br />
<br />
So Kenley went from being a totally mobile, healthy mother of two young children to suddenly being completely immobile from the legs down. Bound to a wheelchair. Two kids in diapers to take care of. Her company shutting down for good and losing her job in the next month. Oh yeah, and a husband who had <strong><em>just</em></strong> left for Naval deployment for the next six months. Life was about to get super ugly. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3riUgp2rVhy4aWhE752C2YjJ-_6aU0N_amW-sVzEnaDbVwnBrkqpi9pObpjSzCm2-pJdsANb1I-wQAGQcw9gfg29qYZlriOvr4A5PLJ1JH5sRK8v1dFwBYWWvT6oVHqszQNm0oDwO-Ho/s1600/DSC00263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3riUgp2rVhy4aWhE752C2YjJ-_6aU0N_amW-sVzEnaDbVwnBrkqpi9pObpjSzCm2-pJdsANb1I-wQAGQcw9gfg29qYZlriOvr4A5PLJ1JH5sRK8v1dFwBYWWvT6oVHqszQNm0oDwO-Ho/s320/DSC00263.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<strong>Here is a very, very, very brief synopsis of how the following weeks went:</strong> <br />
- Kenley got crutches and a walker. (Harper started calling them "Mama Sticks". Also, she was freaked out by them tremendously. Anytime Kenley would start walking toward Harper, the metal poles clinking and scraping, Harper would get that <strong>"OMG, what is THAT!?"</strong> look on her face and come find another non-metal adult to hold her.) We found out in about one day that crutches and a walker were just not going to cut it for her to move around. <br />
- Kenley finally gets a wheelchair. Harper LOVES this thing. She calls it Mama Choochoo, and asks for rides on it all the time.<br />
- We meet with doctors. Then more doctors. Then lawyers. And other lawyers. And pick up prescriptions. And meeting with more doctors. And get more prescriptions. <br />
- Harper is missing daddy, and asking where he is. We cut Dave's head out of a picture we had, and glue it on a popsickle stick. That way, Daddy can kiss Harper whenever she wants him to. She calls this "Dada Stick". <br />
- Kenley FINALLY gets a prescription for a lightweight wheelchair. (<em>Although I've gotta tell ya', as the person who was schlepping the chair in and out of the back of a Jeep in the hot summer sun in Florida...it did NOT feel that lightweight to</em> <em>me.)</em><br />
- Dave FINALLY gets approval to come back home from deployment, since Aunt Andy's job is about to explode without her there, and since Kenley simply can't be left alone. It took a lot of work getting him home, let me tell you, but we were SO thankful once we got the final word that he was on his way back to the good old U.S. of A. <br />
- Dave and Kenley are back together again, reunited and it feels so painful, sore, and stressed. <br />
- Kenley had surgery, started physical therapy, interviewed and was hired for a new job. Dave played Mr. Mom. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDafDWtZuguqh0h6_zqQ3hjItpab2MywJZPucAcquIyNA4lxP_AnYWdkzq9QdkUOVjRWZExvKWo85iv-WCmAkz1IEhz5jg9zYIaZkxBG9xmhyphenhyphenjgXbxCkqjpXCGj0TbMAWZDQy68_1RSbs/s1600/DSC00279.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDafDWtZuguqh0h6_zqQ3hjItpab2MywJZPucAcquIyNA4lxP_AnYWdkzq9QdkUOVjRWZExvKWo85iv-WCmAkz1IEhz5jg9zYIaZkxBG9xmhyphenhyphenjgXbxCkqjpXCGj0TbMAWZDQy68_1RSbs/s320/DSC00279.JPG" /></a></div>Buuuuuuuuuuuuut, <br />
<br />
Now Dave has to head back to his ship. Ugh! <br />
<br />
So M.G. (that's what Harper calls my mom, her grandma) is down in FL for the next 11 days to take over the Florence Nightingale responsibilities. Then I'm heading back down there for another week. Then we'll see where we are after that. But I'll probably be back down again for another shift before the summer is up. <br />
<br />
Things have been stressed for them, to say the least. Two kids in diapers. A wife in a wheelchair. A new job. A husband on deployment. Medical bills. Lawuits. Surgeries. Physical therapy. It has been totally nuts for them. <br />
<br />
<strong>So I'd like to take this opportunity to give some virtual Fist Bumps and Shout Outs to some very awesome people:</strong> <br />
*Noreen Penson: The kids' daycare provider, who totally bailed us out of some very difficult situations. You are so amazing with the kids. Thank you, thank you, thank you.<br />
<br />
*Amy Clay and Judy Andrews: Kenley and Dave's neighbors...a.k.a. Saints! You guys really stepped in with the meals and helping with the kids and getting us everything we needed. You guys are ah-maze-ing. <br />
<br />
*Sam DeRasmi, Beth Tarnowski, Kristin Smith, Nicole ______, Amy Williams, Amber McGunigale, and anyone else who brought dinner, did housework, or watched the kids for Kenley and Dave. Wow, you guys rock. Thank you so much! <br />
<br />
*A super special shout out to Jenn (and Keith) Evola and Theresa Patch, who are Kenley's friends who I got to meet while I was down there. You guys really went waaaay above and beyond anything I could have ever asked for. You are true friends to my sister, and great caretakers of her family. Which, in my book, makes you guys family. I felt so blessed to know you guys were there to handle anything and everything they needed. Thank you, thank you, thank you!<br />
<br />
*Thanks to an awesome website, called <a href="http://www.carecalendar.org/">Care Calendar.</a> I gotta tell you people...I don't know how we would have coordinated all the meals, housework, childcare, etc. that we needed without a system like this. It is run by the Bortel Family, and it is totally free (although donations are gladly accepted for using their system.) It was a lifesaver for someone like me, who demands things be organized.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VWBxKOiSoFufLOx1XCb6z_oplYzuMmUUNnlPcf0-T9xN7tUHUODIY3MSPDRPy58o5KnpI92wI28QSrWOS-J5v5IdJkAwUcA2c-MAI8bdt_YKHIq-7Zh085CAGd0CZI3AlgBR4OGK8Ds/s1600/DSC00280.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VWBxKOiSoFufLOx1XCb6z_oplYzuMmUUNnlPcf0-T9xN7tUHUODIY3MSPDRPy58o5KnpI92wI28QSrWOS-J5v5IdJkAwUcA2c-MAI8bdt_YKHIq-7Zh085CAGd0CZI3AlgBR4OGK8Ds/s320/DSC00280.JPG" /></a></div><br />
*Thanks to my brother Matt for helping me out while I was taking care of Kenley. The extra pair of hands we SO helpful! <br />
<br />
*And of course, thank you to my brother-in-law Dave, who has had to take over a lot of responsibilities this past month. Thank you for your patience and willingness to go the extra mile. And thank you for loving my sister the way you do. I couldn't have asked for a better brother-in-law.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHTzWEYEwB8sF0u76rAzrlEGN749nM2A0J1eQNhQ0qbinxoan9mgYY-NdvQlLhSefx6drOZ31I7TTcp_ebL6prfxuODUmOebCZ1yGQ4UWeYdC82ih1Xu2Oy0_IGVCzYHVqLorctHloBcw/s1600/DSC00284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHTzWEYEwB8sF0u76rAzrlEGN749nM2A0J1eQNhQ0qbinxoan9mgYY-NdvQlLhSefx6drOZ31I7TTcp_ebL6prfxuODUmOebCZ1yGQ4UWeYdC82ih1Xu2Oy0_IGVCzYHVqLorctHloBcw/s400/DSC00284.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Pretty, huh? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-21453626175189962982010-07-01T16:08:00.000-04:002010-07-01T16:08:37.166-04:00Things I Wish I Didn't HaveUgh, God blessed me with an awesome mom. She really is a keeper. <em>(Much love to ya, Mama Crawford!)</em><br />
<br />
Unfortunately, as many of you out there probably know, when you have someone who did a good job raising you, you probably ended up with some character traits you wish you could get rid of. Even just for a day or two. <br />
<br />
Like...<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">A Solid Work Ethic</span></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCc8-pX6aSfuGKc1BX4UUXY4rLMQwPevO_Oq-2cq6A4pHPu7AN0miUZqTwlGfREo2S2meR2uFdYbXh1LLoCUqX1Q-U0G6GjWOu31pmP7pM-NfGVdNi3gPSmj-XNM6yq_7noI9tIHILhk/s1600/workaholic%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCc8-pX6aSfuGKc1BX4UUXY4rLMQwPevO_Oq-2cq6A4pHPu7AN0miUZqTwlGfREo2S2meR2uFdYbXh1LLoCUqX1Q-U0G6GjWOu31pmP7pM-NfGVdNi3gPSmj-XNM6yq_7noI9tIHILhk/s200/workaholic%5B1%5D.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I have been employed since the day after I turned 14 years old. I have worked at <em>least</em> one job, if not two, at ALL times in my life ever since. I am going on my 13th year in the work force. I have several letters of recommendation that make me sound like the Virgin Mary herself birthed me. I have been offered the job for every position I have ever interviewed for. My yearly reviews have to be filed in a special lead folder, because the golden shine from them is blinding. And in all humility, I am mostly proud of these things. Because I work hard. Really, really hard. And I pour all my energy into it. And God gives me the strength to get through even when I have bosses and coworkers who are, shall we say, "less than desirable". <br />
<br />
But seriously, there have been several times in my life when I have looked at people who have crappy work ethics and have found myself very jealous of them. I mean, I <em>desperately </em>want to call in late to work 3 mornings a week. I would <em>love </em>to just show up to work whenever I feel like it. I would <em>really, really, really</em> like to feel okay with only giving 50% on a special project. I wonder what it must feel like to utter the words <strong>"Oh well, guess we just won't make the deadline. Ha!"</strong><br />
<br />
Sometimes, I really hate the good work ethic my mom instilled in me. Thanks a lot, Crawford! Psh. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Having a Guilty Conscience</span></strong><br />
Oh my gosh. I never need anyone to accuse me of anything I have ever done wrong, because I am constantly turning myself in before anyone else even has a chance to discover I have done something wrong at all. My guilty conscience is my superhero power (that, and Automatic Exploding Afro). Here are three examples...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3zhntfcb2B1RvAE4OOP58jYtjVP0xyl6oE39krGLPP4IT2M-0ObaUFob1omr65wiwEtIZYuDadx8pC86RvdOx_F2Rsp1rpcM0MZq-lo_NVUWpxRpHDYXDODEBRWdV4xlRIFNNhUp0aM/s1600/PlayFlipCup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="136" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3zhntfcb2B1RvAE4OOP58jYtjVP0xyl6oE39krGLPP4IT2M-0ObaUFob1omr65wiwEtIZYuDadx8pC86RvdOx_F2Rsp1rpcM0MZq-lo_NVUWpxRpHDYXDODEBRWdV4xlRIFNNhUp0aM/s200/PlayFlipCup.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> 1. I threw a <strong><span style="font-size: large;">killer </span></strong>house party my senior year of high school when my mom was out of town. I mean, that mess was tri-county! Kids were arrested. Cops came (twice). Beer flowed. Drugs were dropped (although I had no part in this aspect). Entire panels of the fence in our backyard were destroyed. Years later, when my mom tried to sell the house, she was STILL finding beer bottles, condoms (gross people!), and cigarette butts in our back yard. It was epic. Worthy of any '90's movie references you can think of. <strong>BUT</strong>, when all was said and done, I couldn't even get to sleep that night knowing I had done something so wrong. The guilt was literally eating me up inside (well, the guilt plus the 30 beers I had ingested settling into my under-aged belly). I picked up the phone around 3am or so, called the front desk of the hotel where my mom was staying, and asked to be transferred to her room. With my heart pounding, I gave her the scoop, told her I would be ready for my sentencing when she came home, and that I would have the house cleaned up by the time she got back. In all honesty, I probably could have come up with a cover story, and been able to ellude my mom for years without her finding out. But the guilt would have seriously torn a whole in my brain, and it would have started leaking out in little chunks out of my right ear, and that just insn't a good look for anyone, especially someone with curly hair. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuvdf1Dy61qd_l_Mtt28g5sgBNcBclwMDbptNjrkik_jDSFx2JqyGYhsDIAmd6C7lpdYgwEhnTNL7Ps4HtpArs3AGRmMMTK9vFEn4eJPELqSzFFlgRxyr2FpPTcDEVzxXoeO7USwOlC8/s1600/quarters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuvdf1Dy61qd_l_Mtt28g5sgBNcBclwMDbptNjrkik_jDSFx2JqyGYhsDIAmd6C7lpdYgwEhnTNL7Ps4HtpArs3AGRmMMTK9vFEn4eJPELqSzFFlgRxyr2FpPTcDEVzxXoeO7USwOlC8/s200/quarters.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> 2.<em> (Oh my gosh, if my dad reads this he might really get mad....sorry dad)</em> So when I was about 9 or so, I spent the weekend with my brother at my grandma's house. My grandma is cool, but there really wasn't ever a lot to do at the house. We had a book of Ronald and Nancy Reagan paper dolls (what the frig, why would these ever be created, ever?). There were approximately 11 kid movies she owned: 10 were Shirley Temple movies, and 1 was "Big Top Pee-Wee" which, if you ask me, really should not have been shown to kids. Sooooo, one day in our boredeom, we found this old Chock Full O' Nuts coffee can filled to the brim with coins, and a bag of coin wrappers sitting on top. Our grandma said we could roll them up in the wrappers if we wanted to. Sweet! Something to do! So my brother and I started counting the coins and placing them in the brown paper coin rollers. (Matt, oh my gosh, do you even remember this?) Well, we got through the entire jar, and let me tell you...it was A LOT of money. (Keep in mind, I was like 9, so the "<strong>A LOT</strong>" part might be relative.) Anyway, when we were done, my grandma told us to be sure to put the wrapped coins back in the jar, and she would take them to the bank later on and put the money in her account. Well, I figured I deserved a cut of the profits since I did all the labor, so I managed to squirrel away about 8-10 rolls of quarters, which adds up to roughly $80-$100 bucks. There was plenty still left in the jar, so I figured no one would notice. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYGF4tyw2AskZ7CpjctpVMQmDXk7VXPDcRB59W8AgfjBFJ3pYzg95a111AF2IcnLl_a-TePjyinwkAOxNM-S0OTd98Tj-vrdsJOO_0KTpw37AkPBTg9PdsG2Lts-MWEobOrkYcAC6MGo/s1600/bedazzler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" rw="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKYGF4tyw2AskZ7CpjctpVMQmDXk7VXPDcRB59W8AgfjBFJ3pYzg95a111AF2IcnLl_a-TePjyinwkAOxNM-S0OTd98Tj-vrdsJOO_0KTpw37AkPBTg9PdsG2Lts-MWEobOrkYcAC6MGo/s200/bedazzler.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><strong>BUT</strong>, I just couldn't bring myself to spend the money. I got home, and thought of alllllll the ways I could spend it.... a new My Little Pony. Some cool new hair scrunchies. I always did want a Bedazzler. I laid in bed at night and dreamt of what I would spend it on. At least, that's what I did for the first night. The rest of the nights, I laid in bed wondering how God was going to punish me. Would it be a huge lightening bolt while I was waiting for our carpool lady to pick us up at school, leaving behind only a smoldering pile of ashes and my gym bag? Perhaps God would bring forth a flood that would only hit my bedroom, sweeping me away in the middle of the night while my family was left dry and un-wrathed upon? The guilt...I could taste it like a mouth full of stolen quarters. I had to make it right. So the following Sunday, I brought the rolls of quarters with me to church. And I put them, all of them, in the gold offering plate. It was the most tainted, but most joyful tithe I have ever given. <br />
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3. The third example of my guilty conscience is taking place right now, as I type. I feel sooooooo incredibly badly for typing this blog while I'm at work, that I think I am going to have to stay an extra hour just so I can balance out my timesheet and not feel badly at the end of the month when I fill out my hours.<em> (Wow, I'm combining A Solid Work Ethic </em><strong>AND</strong><em> A Guilty Conscience in this one...not too shabby.) </em><br />
<br />
Just <strong>once</strong>, I would like to do something bad and not have pangs of guilt so badly that I think I am having a heart attack at the age of 27. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">What about you guys out there? Have anything your parents instilled in you that you wish you could get rid of every so often?</span></strong> <br />
<br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-65341281134276590042010-02-12T11:11:00.001-05:002010-02-12T11:17:06.369-05:00Lunch, InterruptedI work in your standard office environment. Which means I live in a fishbowl for 40+ hours of the week. Everytime you sneeze, every time you say <em>"I love you"</em> to someone on the phone, every time you try and eek out one of those silent-but-deadlies...everyone in the office is aware of it. You can't get away with anything in this place. <br />
<br />
Especially if you are trying to eat. <br />
<br />
Like a lot of people, though I <strike>hate</strike> <strike>despise</strike> <strike>loathe</strike> lose a little bit of my soul every time I clock in at my job, I for some reason am very dedicated to it. Which translates into a good 4 out of 5 lunches every week which are spent eating a microwaved meal at my desk, still hudled over my keyboard trying desperately to reduce my email inbox down to a double-digit number instead of doing the healthy thing and leaving the office behind for 30 minutes while I venture out into the real world. <br />
<br />
So because you are sitting at your desk, even though you have food in front of you, people feel free to walk in and talk to you about <strike>their little ridiculous emergencies that could have been avoided with better planning and forethought </strike>work while you are eating. And more often than not, they feel the need to comment on your lunch selection. <br />
<br />
Here are a few of my favorite things that have actually been said to me while eating lunch in my office: <br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, that looks good! What's that?"</span></strong><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_x4e1_FUnms0p7TIBUvKI7ntvhID_y81NIAHeeFRzjrFwrMXsJzExHhZo88O7dnT9br9J5-D6R2ahZooUC-sFPDZeANyGieolmZ7xWQyBjmz6KbMejKSYDKsbMnjMOn2-75l3Jv6_dM/s1600-h/The-Sleeping-Bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_x4e1_FUnms0p7TIBUvKI7ntvhID_y81NIAHeeFRzjrFwrMXsJzExHhZo88O7dnT9br9J5-D6R2ahZooUC-sFPDZeANyGieolmZ7xWQyBjmz6KbMejKSYDKsbMnjMOn2-75l3Jv6_dM/s320/The-Sleeping-Bear.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Every time someone asks me <em>"What's that?"</em> while I'm eating, I really have to fight the urge to keep my smart-assery at bay. Here is why: never <strong><span style="font-size: large;">ONCE</span></strong> have I brought something so exotic and so unrecognizable for lunch that your average cubicle-monkey really and truly might not be able to identify it. If you walk into my office, and I am eating somethign that looks like wavy sheets of pasta layered with red tomato sauce sitting in a plastic microwaveable tray...chances are, it is lasagna. If you come in, and it looks like a bunch of lettuce, carrots, mushrooms, tomatoes, and cucumbers all decided to get in a bowl and have a big ole' party together, chances are I'm eating what we grown ups call a "salad". Seriously. If you can't identify a slice of leftover pizza by now, I'm worried for your skills of observation. You will probably be eaten by a bear at some point in your life because you were too stupid to realize the "lovely park" you just wandered in was the Grizzly Exhibit at your local zoo. Don't ask me <em>"What's that"</em> unless it looks like I'm eating Scorpion Shishkabobs with Bird Poo dipping sauce. (And even then...who wouldn't be able to identify a scorpion when they see one?!?!)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh, you don't want that orange. Here, take this crate of tangerines my brother flew in for me."</span></strong><br />
Don't tell me what I DO and DO NOT want to eat, mmmkay? I brought this orange for lunch today because I in fact DO want to eat it. Please trust me when I say that I was not sitting at my desk, peeling my oh-so-sweet, juicy, and delicious orange but really thinking on the inside, <em>"Gee, I wish some obnoxious Buttinski would waltz into my office, degrade my citrus selection for the day, and then drop 18 lbs. of unwanted produce in my lap." </em>No one has ever formulated that thought. Ever. So keep your supposed-superior produce to yourself! And when you have to take a week off of work because you caught Salmonella poisoning from your Mexican fruit, I'll be laughing my butt off because the organic and locally grown orange I ate last week provided me with enough Vitamin C to Kung-Fu Chop your Salmonella butt right in your stupid looking face, okay? <br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh wow, that cookie looks sooooooo good. I wish I didn't care about what I put in my body."</span></strong><br />
Hey you Skinny Freak who has had 6 children and still fits in a size 4 pair of jeans!!!!! I know I'm draggin' a big wagon, mkay? I don't need you passively-agressively pointing it out to me while I'm trying to take in one simple joy like a stinkin' cookie!!!! Back off, go pop out another kid, and mind your own business. Freak! <br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Oh hey, do you mind if I have some of that? I haven't had anything to eat yet today because I was running late this morning and didn't have time to pack a lunch thanks to my husband who had lost my keys last night and my sick cat who needed an insulin shot this morning really tied me up time-wise and then I forgot we had that big meeting today so I had to go change out of my khakis and sweater and into a Power Suit but my pantyhose got a run in them so I had to drive to the local drugstore and see if they had any but they only had X-Small and X-Large sizes, and no medium, so I called my sister to see if she could loan me blah blah blah blah blah blah blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."</span></strong><br />
By this point in the unwanted conversation, one of two things is about to take place...<br />
1) I will have already shoveled ALL of the food that she was asking to share into my own mouth because I'm a chubby girl, and we don't take kindly to people asking us to share food. You have better odds of me giving you a kidney than you do of me giving you half of my sandwich. <br />
OR<br />
2) I will rip off my own arm and beat myself senseless with it until I pass out face down on my keyboard just so I don't have to listen to anymore of your stories about your husband, your cat, your sister, or your pantyhose. <br />
<br />
Anyone else deal with these lunch intruders at work? Seriously, I enjoy my food in silence and shame, like the rest of Chubby America. No one here needs your running commentary about the history of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. <br />
<br />
Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-53607014831859720622010-02-11T10:19:00.001-05:002010-02-11T10:27:30.201-05:00T&A, and VDay, Oh My!Here is the thing about Valentine's Day...<br />
<br />
Most men are clueless. They really are, bless 'em. <em>(Unless you found one of the super-awesome-thoughtful-considerate ones....if so, ask them to send a message back to their planet to send down more like him!)</em> So instead of putting effort into it, they go with something easy. And what to their wondering eyes should appear, but special Valentine's Day jewelry shaped like a woman's rear.<br />
<br />
Ladies and Gentlemen, the award for most awful <strong>Valentine's Day Jewelry Design</strong> goes to...(drumroll please)...<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>The </strong><a href="http://www.kay.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/product1%7C10101%7C10001%7C-1%7C172045902%7C15055%7C15055.20512.20514.20539"><strong>"Open Hearts"</strong></a><strong> collection, by Jane Seymour</strong></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MkPn3b6T5XmILEx5kQZuA4jk7nGmwtbUUAoexu-jbZ6cuwm5fBua8NfvWw-NqTGy77dPPkdMIizXVLDap8jgJCCpfMTVzm24tyCA_XGoOcVWWJCdUe6H1XQeqscISiWhUPp-dRQE118/s1600-h/open+hearts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MkPn3b6T5XmILEx5kQZuA4jk7nGmwtbUUAoexu-jbZ6cuwm5fBua8NfvWw-NqTGy77dPPkdMIizXVLDap8jgJCCpfMTVzm24tyCA_XGoOcVWWJCdUe6H1XQeqscISiWhUPp-dRQE118/s320/open+hearts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Come on now, I can NOT be the only one who sees two things when I look at this design (and it's not two hearts, either). I'm talking about boobs and butt, people. Rack and rear. What woman would want to wear this design? It looks like a poorly graffitied homage that some thug sprayed on the side of a Metro train to impress his 'boo'. (Yeah, I went there. Hello, 2002! Nice of you to show up!)</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The last thing women want is a constant reminder dangling from our neck of the perfectly shaped boobs and butt we <strike>never had to begin with</strike> will never have again, thanks to squeezing out out <strong>your</strong> third child, Sir. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>Second place award goes to the sterling silver </strong><a href="http://www.reeds.com/Sterling-Silver-Hershey-s-Kiss-reg-Pendant-plu19055151.html"><strong>Hershey Kiss Pendant Necklace</strong></a><strong>.</strong> <br />
Guys, do not even THINK about getting this for your lady. Not for Valentine's Day. Not for any other holiday. I don't care if a Hershey's Kiss holds some kind of special meaning for the two of you. I don't care if you met in Hershey, Pennsylvania, proposed to her on the <a href="http://www.hersheypark.com/rides/detail.php?id=21">Kissing Tower in Hershey Park</a>, and made love to each other on a bed of Hershey Kisses on your first night as husband and wife. There is no reason to have chocolate candy-shaped silver dangling from your body. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlGuIIfPk3PN7OxCNVBap-t0CrYq3oOkZu9Gz4AzH9S8oVVPPJmX5ZAaVEnC4ZwzWSnSojgda4MCVOfNAxtfMjxY1oaNajswYPfVClG7JRFCTfnY77SG3W_Co542jB2qIX140MQwLW64/s1600-h/kiss+pendant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVlGuIIfPk3PN7OxCNVBap-t0CrYq3oOkZu9Gz4AzH9S8oVVPPJmX5ZAaVEnC4ZwzWSnSojgda4MCVOfNAxtfMjxY1oaNajswYPfVClG7JRFCTfnY77SG3W_Co542jB2qIX140MQwLW64/s200/kiss+pendant.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Listen, I love chocolate just as much as the next girl. (Well, probably <strong>more</strong> than the next girl.) But just because you like something doesn't mean you should shape it out of sterling silver and dangle it from your neck like some Olympic Medal won in the Chocoholic Luge Race. What if you happen to love porkchops? Should your hubby get you a gold-plated pendant shaped like a pork chop for Valentine's Day? I would like to submit Man Rule #4985 for approval, stating <strong>"No food-shaped jewelry item should be presented to your wife."</strong> Guys, this is a rule set up for your own self-preservation. Adhere to it. I promise it won't let you down. <br />
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Also, can we talk about the fact that the craftsmanship is terrible? I mean, this looks like the kind of thing you get out of those quarter-machines at the front of the grocery store when you were a kid. If you get her this, some of those press-on tattoos, and a rubber bouncy ball she could have a veritable cornucopia of quarter-machine goodies! <br />
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Here is hoping the ladies in my life will not receive such hideousness for Valentines Day. And here is hoping that the men in my life are smart enough to steer clear of anything resembling boobs, butts, and pork chops when shopping for the woman who is supposed to be the love of their life. <br />
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Cellulite and Tell You Right, <br />
AndyAndyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-40302499047461351252009-09-04T08:06:00.016-04:002009-09-04T13:44:28.427-04:00Things I will NEVER do if I'm ever a mom<span style="font-size:85%;">Okay, before all the moms out there go ballistic on me and start a <strong>Blogger Comment War</strong>, I'd just like to say these few things: </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">a) Yes, I know. I'm not a mom, and until I have kids, there are many things you think I just <em>"wouldn't understand."</em> Trust me, I have a full grasp of this concept. I hear this line at least 4 times a week. I get it. You're smarter than me because you are a parent. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">b) This is <strong>just</strong> a blog. Something I do with my spare time. A few scrawlings across the screen so I can still feel okay about telling people I was an English major in college. This is just a blog. This is just a blog. This is just a blog.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">c) Yes, I realize that if I ever do reproduce a little Mini Andy, that I'm sure I'll break every single one of these rules I have written down. And when that happens, I hope some young single child-less girl out there will see me doing one of these things, get frustrated, and then be prompted to write a blog exactly like this one. Life is cyclical people. Just like laundry. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Okay, so without further ado, I give you....</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Things I Will NEVER Do If I'm Ever A Mom</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>1. I will never bring my 11-14 year old son bra shopping with me.</strong><br />This is just down right wrong. I know sometimes you have several errands to run, and you've got the kids with you, and blah blah blah. I know babysitters are expensive <em>(especially me, but that's only because I'm an awesome babysitter specializing in living room forts, braiding Barbie's hair, and awesome bedtime stories complete with the character voices and everything</em>). And I know if you leave him at home by himself he will eat everything in the pantry and leave a trail of Oreo crumbs and half-empty Gatorade bottles for you to clean up when you get home. But if <em>"Shop for bras and panties"</em> is on your list of errands, you seriously need to find somewhere else for your son to be at this time. Last night, I was in the lingerie section of a store, and this kid was a wreck. One minute he was on his hands and knees crawling under the dressing room stalls, making machine gun noises. Later on he was taking some of the larger bras off of the rack, and seeing how far he could catapult a pair of panties across the room. After that, I caught him staring at the assortment of bras in my hand, and giving me a really creepy <em>"I'm young enough to not quite understand all of this, but old enough to still have dirty thoughts running through my head"</em> kind of look. Then he started to time himself to see how fast he could run from the Juniors panty section to the Women's World section and back. Then his little overstimulated brain got distracted by a display case, and he started reading out loud the advertisement for a particular new bra, turning to me while giggling and asking <em>"What are <a href="http://www.balicompany.com/collections.asp?cat=1&col=23">'concealing petals'</a> for?"</em> If I could have found his mother, I would have given her an earful. Or if I could have gotten my hands on him and gotten out of the store before security could tackle me, then I would have. But I'm not a particularly fast runner, so my only consolation is writing a blog about it to ensure I remember NEVER to bring my future-son bra shopping with me. Ever.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>2. I will never lick my finger and wipe something off of my kid's face with it.</strong> </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Seriously, this is gnarly. I know first hand, because it was done to me SEVERAL times as a kid. Really, is that tiny trail of chocolate on your kid's face bothering you THAT MUCH that you absolutely have to lick your thumb and smear it off? Now the kid not only has a chocolate smear on their face slightly resembling poo, but now their face has all of your mouth germs on it, and it smells like whatever you ate for lunch. Awesome. Good job, parents. You have just cemented your kid as The Stinky Kid in Class. How is this considered a better alternative to just leaving the chocolate on there? What ever happened to sleeves? Man, I'm 26 years old, and I <strong>still </strong>wipe my face on my shirt sleeve. That's why shirt sleeves exist. You are robbing them of their life's mission if you deny them this duty. I happen to think that kids with crud on their faces look endearing. I have been known to utter these very words more than once in my life..."<em>Awww, look at that little monster with the trail of Cheeto's dust all over his cheek...isn't he cute?"</em> But trust me, no one has ever said <em>"Aww, look at that kid. He looks so much better now that the Ranch dressing has been smeared off of his face and replaced with a trail of dad-spittle."</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>3. I will never lie to my kid.<br /></strong>Wait, scratch that. That's ridiculous. Everyone lies to their kid. It is for their best interest, right?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>4. I will never kid myself into thinking that the rest of the world agrees that my child is the most beautiful child in the world.</strong> </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Look, let's be honest with each other here. We've all seen them. They exist, and they walk among us every day. The ugly kids. Or heck, maybe they aren't even ugly...but they're just not as cute as some of the other kids. Its okay to not be THE CUTEST KID IN THE WORLD (besides, that title is already held by <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillUHXZ6jsqXVV0efRLRwnuzD3PiKFo82xYPOHdnVRqrxQiqLdwQqY5TvTrrXSHKc09e_BB9lpaRwwFDYlvPg27BH55Py7tDldTQ5kejD2HP_0FkmqfNfaCv5nIy6BchL8ho09rGtWZdEp/s1600-h/beach+010.jpg">my niece</a>). We can't all have THE CUTEST baby. Of course parents think they have the most beautiful child. But you can't expect everyone in the world to agree with you. Because everyone else in the world has their own kids, who they think are the most beautiful kids in the world. So let's just take a look at the facts: <strong>Fact #1:</strong> Everyone in the world thinks they have a good sense of humor, a great eye for fashion, and the cutest kid. <strong>Fact #2: </strong>Everyone in the world can name at least one person who DOES NOT have a good sense of humor, a great eye for fashion, or the cutest kid. You do the math. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>5. I will never be disappointed in my child for not having the exact set of interest that I do.</strong> </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">If I ever have a kid, I promise myself I will not expect them on the way out of the birth canal to pick up an interest in writing, an undying love for the music of Queen, and a penchant for singing in the shower. It is ridiculous to think that just because you gave life to something means it will mimic your every desire, talent, and goal in life. Is it awesome if it works out that way? Absolutely 100% yes. Is it a trajedy if it doesn't? Not at all. And I refuse to get all "<em>Ohh, woe is me, I can't connect with my son/daughter because they're into _______ and I'm into _____."</em> If I had a kid, and one day it said to me, <em>"You know what mom? I think I really like taking computers apart and putting them back together again,"</em> I would be so amped up to discover that about my little monster. Do I share their excitement over motherboards? No. But the fact that they identified something they like independently of me is awesome. If my daughter expresses a desire to hold the <a href="http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&rls=com.microsoft%3Aen-us&um=1&sa=3&q=elaine+davidson">world record for facial piercings</a>, then so be it. What if my son just got a grant to study the mating rituals of creatures living in the Mariana Trench? Okay....not my thing, but hey---that's why God is awesome. We all have an infinite set of interests programmed into us. I hate seeing kids struggling and sacrificing themselves just to excel at something their parents love, but which they themself have no interest or passion for. Would I love to have a kid who will sing along with me while we're on road trips? Yes, that would be AWWWWESOME. But would I also love a kid who would rather study math theorems? You bet. I refuse to be one of those parents who wants a cookie cutter version of themself to pop out. I want something new. I want my kid to have their own thing. And I promise myself I will put forth great effort to support them in whatever that may be. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">What are some of the things you promise yourself you will never do as a parent? Or maybe you had a list like this, but then had kids, and it all changed. Let me know...</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Cellulite and Tell You Right, </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Andy</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-45221758085490621972009-06-26T08:13:00.003-04:002009-06-26T08:24:41.287-04:00Dear Kerr Avenue McDonald's<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsETaZi6C6catdGbVbNsxWbvMIo-LzukWtp_di5VpRrhHTNTNatioz8d6g1gzl7iFLu3Y6DW_p0rpsq_-ALhfhQlUY5VOWREVlIlf0msTOdpqCm_yRlEVljhAtrfv8jnSlV7TomoJnkMs/s1600-h/ketchuponmyketcup.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351611145888794578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsETaZi6C6catdGbVbNsxWbvMIo-LzukWtp_di5VpRrhHTNTNatioz8d6g1gzl7iFLu3Y6DW_p0rpsq_-ALhfhQlUY5VOWREVlIlf0msTOdpqCm_yRlEVljhAtrfv8jnSlV7TomoJnkMs/s400/ketchuponmyketcup.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Okay, this is a quickie here this morning...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="color:#000099;">Topic:</span></strong> Implied Condiments</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="color:#000099;">Rant:</span></strong> Seriously, a human being should never, EVER have to ask someone at a fast food restaurant if they can have some ketchup with their meal. This condiment should be<strong> implied</strong> with the purchasing of any food item whatsoever at these grease joints. Please don't make me ask for ketchup with my fries...it only makes you look stupid and unintuitive.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><strong><span style="color:#000099;">In Closing:</span></strong> Asking "<em>Do you need ketchup with those fries?</em>" is equally as ridiculous as "<em>Do fries come with that shake?</em>"</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>-Cellulite and Tell You Right, </div><br /><div>Andy</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-330844892445887307.post-65000579466427370742009-06-24T09:52:00.003-04:002009-06-24T10:05:14.627-04:00The Summer of Cellulite<p>Americans become fascinated with weird things very easily...<br /><br />~ Obnoxious New Jersey “Housewives” (although trust me, the average N.J. housewife does NOT resemble the TV versions at all)<br />~ Competitive Eating<br />~ “When Bears/Sharks/Crazy Brides Attack”<br />~ And more recently...a fascination with the larger side of living.<br /><br />You know what I’m talking about, all you Princesses of Pudge, you Broads of Bulk, Ladies of Largeness, Dames of Dumpiness, Women of Width, and Femmes of Flab.<br /><br />For some reason, this summer's TV lineup is proving to be all about the Girls of Girth, and I'm taking issue with two shows in particular...<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">“Dance Your Ass Off”</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#000099;">Premise:</span></strong> <em><span style="color:#000099;">Let’s get a bunch of fatties together, squeeze them into fishnet stockings, throw a bunch of sequins on them, teach them some dance moves, and then criticize them on how poorly they executed a dance routine each week.</span></em><br /><br />Look, I am all for getting in shape (especially since my current shape is “donut-shaped”). But what gets me is the exploitation factor. Should overweight people lose weight...YES. Should they have fun doing it...YES. Should it be broadcast on cable TV for all the world to see...I’m going with NO on this one. The producers will surely try and turn this into an overly dramatic depiction of what is really going on behind the scenes...see the clip below, where the contestants are throwing pillows in fits of cellulite-induced rage; making rabid, animalistic facial expressions while thundering onto a stair-stepper; and practically spouting sonnets to a wheel of cheesecake while basking in the refrigerator’s glowing light. Wouldn’t it be more humane to show what was really going on in their lives, instead of the fleeting moments of insanity and hunger-driven madness? Let’s show the contestants interacting with their families, let’s show them going grocery shopping and learning healthy buying techniques. Anything other than the freak-show ridiculousness that the Oxygen producers will surely turn this show into. Empresses of Excess, I implore you...we all need to get in shape. But it shouldn’t take public humiliation, degradation, and people who don’t care about you at all sitting in front of a “judging panel” to dissect your progress in order for you to be motivated to lose weight.<br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mnAxqBVFQso&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mnAxqBVFQso&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">“More to Love”<br /><br /></span><span style="color:#000099;">Premise:</span></strong><span style="color:#000099;"> <em>Think “The Bachelor”, only McDonald’s Super Sized.</em></span><br /><br />They should have just called this one “<strong>Average People in the Dating Scene</strong>”...it would have been more realistic. Because let’s face it... if you eliminate all of the aspiring (bad)actresses, worn out 80’s band groupies, and women who have more plastic in their bodies than Barbie...this is what you are left with. This is what real people look like...average, probably overweight, and unremarkable (pointing to myself as Exhibit A). The producers have been quoted as saying the bachelor is a “<strong>Kevin James-type</strong>”, and the women are plus-sized and looking for love (in all the wrong places, if you ask me). They have also stated that their emphasis will not be on getting the women to lose weight...it is simply to help them find true love. Let me tell you, I question ANYONE...size 2 or size 22... who thinks that a ‘reality’ show (using the term incredibly loosely here) will be the best venue for finding a soul mate. The promo bump hosts the typical shedding of tears along with all of the clichéd sayings we large women tell ourselves like “<em><span style="color:#663366;">I do think I’m judged on my weight</span></em>”, “<span style="color:#663366;"><em>I really really want to have that love story</em></span>” and my personal favorite that I should just go ahead and get tattooed on the (large) small of my back “<span style="color:#663366;"><em>I just want people to love me for me</em></span>”. Is this show a sign of the apocalypse...No. But seriously ladies, if you are large, and you’re looking for a date, why don’t you try going to the gym? You’ll accomplish two things...getting healthier, and the opportunity to meet men who have at least one common interest shared with you. Let’s not all bring out the claws to fight and compete over one fat guy. There’s plenty of him to go around, but just because FOX TV has deemed him a good candidate for a reality show doesn’t mean he is the best candidate to whisk you away into Happily Married Ever After.<br /><embed height="292" name="flashObj" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/shockwave/download/index.cgi?P1_Prod_Version=" width="326" src="http://c.brightcove.com/services/viewer/federated_f8/1545148137" swliveconnect="true" seamlesstabbing="false" base="http://admin.brightcove.com" flashvars="videoId=26749113001&playerId=1545148137&viewerSecureGatewayURL=https://console.brightcove.com/services/amfgateway&servicesURL=http://services.brightcove.com/services&cdnURL=http://admin.brightcove.com&domain=embed&autoStart=false&" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"></embed><br /><br /><br />In closing, I beg my fellow Meaty Maidens, Countesses of Corpulence, Squaws of Surplus, and Handmaidens of Heft: Yes, getting in shape should be a priority. But please do it in a healthy manor that won’t compromise your self-confidence, values, and acceptance of the person you are regardless of your ability to dance, your marital status, or your jean size.<br /><br />Cellulite and Tell You Right,<br />Andy<br /></p>Andyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15492150338110040038noreply@blogger.com2