So Many New Things

I’ve learned a couple things these past few weeks I haven’t posted anything. . . Well, I’ll go back and do a small recap of my adventures and interject my newly acquired knowledge (or witnesses to knowledge I already had).

I went to Los Angeles with some friends during the weekend of Mother’s Day. We spent time at Disneyland, California Adventure, The J. Paul Getty Museum, Santa Monica, Hollywood, and several restaurants. While on this trip, I learned some key things: my jeans aren’t as flattering as I thought they were, women should always wear bras even if they’re not busty (their lack of bra is definitely not as flattering as they think they are). Churros should be eaten away from the body and only when you’re dry and full garlic meals shouldn’t be eaten while on a date. Women talk to more strangers than men do. I get scolded if I buckle my backpack into the Tower of Terror seatbelt. Martha Andrea and I look cute in a similar cut shirt. I still don’t like tomatoes. too many teenage girls think they’re really cute in Winnie the Pooh ear barrettes. Hannah Montana really is taking over the world. I can’t eat a full burger from the ESPN Zone without being sick and no one should eat a full Monte Cristo sandwich from the Blue Bayou by themselves. Some people have weird ideas at what constitutes “fine art”. Gina Davis looks a bit older than I thought. PT Cruisers have terrible turning radiuses and weird shiny distracting dashboards, and Jeff snores.

The trip was a blast.

Then upon returning, I learned that my dog gets both exhausted and wounded at pet care places, I’m not as rich as I’d like to think, the government really doesn’t want to give me my six hundred dollars, and my bed is my favorite.

Since then, I learned that I didn’t like the second Narnia movie or Golden Compass. My melon colored shirt makes me look both tan and thinner so I’ll be wearing that every day. A Master Butler taught me that gum doesn’t freshen breath and that when a lady leaves the table, the man should order a new napkin for her. He also taught me how to eat cheesecake. I never knew you needed both a fork and a spoon.

Today I learned that t-shirts starring Bo Duke will invoke teasing.

Holy cow, that’s a lot. . . And that was only in two weeks.

Dating panel

Recently I was asked to be on a dating panel. It’s exactly what you think; six people sitting up in front of a crowd, answering questions. As I looked down the table at the other girls in the panel, high school came to mind. I was sitting with the Prom queen, the head cheerleader, and the captain of the chess club. I guess that made me the class clown. The guys had an equal division of clicks. Yeah, I couldn’t figure out how I fit in either.

The questions were pretty great. There were ones like “How should I ask a girl out?” or “If a girl ignores me, is she playing hard to get or is she not interested?” My answers were pretty simple too; “Just ask her. Chances are good that she’ll say yes (that is if you don’t display any creepy mutant factors)” and “Move along Captain Stalker. . . she’s not interested. Find another prey to harass.” There were other questions addressing whether or not a first date is alright on Valentines day, if and when the girl should pay, what a woman wants in a man, etc.

It was interesting though. Every question was pretty much asking the same thing: How do I not fail at dating? Finally, after several different versions of this one question I pointed out that everyone in the room was in their thirties or forties and single - we’ve all failed. That’s why they held the dating panel in the first place. The only way not to fail at all in dating is to not date. . . But then you’re sitting on your couch every night with no life to speak of and although you’re not having your heart broken, you’re not progressing either- which in my book is the biggest failure of them all. Go date already.

There’s this weird thing in Utah that people only feel comfortable dating someone when they know that person is 100% interested or they’ve already established that they’re a couple. My question is this – How do you know if someone fits you before you’ve tried them on for size? If anyone has ever made you go “Hmm. That’s interesting” at all. . . Ask them out. See what makes them tick. . .They could fit you perfectly.

After the panel, I was approached by several different men saying things like “I’ve learned so much from you blah blah blah. ..” and I just got frustrated. I didn’t feel like anything I shared was new. It was just common sense. All I learned was that the number one thing a man is looking for in a woman is punctuality and in order to get a man’s attention, I need to drop a handkerchief.

wardrobe malfunctions

Every time someone asks me about my most embarrassing moment, I have to ponder it quite a bit. . . It’s not that I haven’t had blush-enducing events in my life – it’s that I’ve had so many and have decided that being mortified by them doesn’t make them any less embarrassing. I also believe that the amount of witnesses to said event also determines the level of embarrassment.

A good example of not enough witnesses was when I was on a date in Rexburg Idaho in the winter. That’s not the embarrassing part. My date was a pretty cool guy, complete with a Jeep. At the end of the date he came to my side of the jeep, opened my door, and reached for my hand. Luckily I took it because as soon as my foot hit the ice covered ground, it slid. Both feet shot between his and we were stuck, holding hands as he straddled my body, and attempted to keep me from hitting the ground. I was suspended in his grasp but during my fall, my dress rode up my body and became more of a cummerbund around my waist instead of the gown it was.

We laughed about it, but I wasn’t necessarily embarrassed. Everyone falls prey to the Rexburg ice sheet.

Another example was when I was walking with a group of friends from a college event. Strangely, I was dressed up again. We were the first group in long line of students leaving the building and as we walked, I felt the elastic in my slip’s waistband pop. I said nothing.

I remained silent as we continued walking and I could feel the slip slowly work its way down my waist. . . Soon we started to hear laughing from behind. I knew my slip was sticking far below the bottom of my skirt but I remained engrossed in our conversation, trying to walk a little straddled so I could keep it up. But to no avail. There was no way I could keep it up when it slid completely over the butt and hit the knees. The slip fell to the ground and I just stepped out of it as we kept walking. Laughter erupted from the dozens of students behind us but my friends remained oblivious to the situation.

I can’t say that was embarrassing because my friends never knew what happened (Ok NOW they do). And the people behind us had no idea who I was. . . And as far as I know, the slip is still on the sidewalk.

I guess I’m more embarrassed by things that you can’t laugh off, like rude behavior or meanness.

Huh. This reminds me. . . I need a new slip.

my prom

My sister and I both had proms this weekend. She’s 16 and I’m 34. Hers was her junior prom and mine was an 80s prom party, where a whole bunch of adults acted like we were 17 again. The only real comforting thing for me was the fact that I didn’t ever actually go to a prom in the 80s. I graduated in the 90s. But of course I went along with it. . . Any opportunity I have to dress up and dance is ok by me.

Well, I made my dress out of taffeta and satin. It was spectacularly pink and black with a drop waist, puffy sleeves, tiered skirt, and a huge flower on my hip. I made a wrist corsage that was about a foot long. I had on tan tights that looked more like a grey corpse color and black pumps. My hair looked like that crazy tight perm we all had in 1987 and I had enough eye shadow to make Cindy Lauper jealous. I couldn’t believe I already had a tube of pink lipstick in my makeup box. I even wore “Primo” perfume. A friend of mine came with me. He wore a perfect new wave/Flock of Seagulls hairdo, a bowtie, and cummerbund.

Anyway, it was a fun dance. There were miles of taffeta and enough bangs to fill a yearbook. The air was full of Aquanet and Drakkar. Neon and pastel colors were resurrected. Girls still sat in chairs watching the boys lean against the walls. It looked just like a prom with a huge disco ball in the center, tinfoil stars, a faux background for prom photos, and 80s music. . . But, instead of the expected room of teenagers, it was full of chaperones. Instead of Anthony Michael Hall, it had 40 year olds wearing mullet wigs. Instead of the creepy man that played the principal in Ferris Beuller, the walls were lined with scores of creepy men. I couldn’t tell if they were in costume or not. Sad thing was- some of the costumes weren’t too much of a stretch for many of the people there.

But now the dance is over, my hair is straight again. I did have to put on a t shirt that matched the hot pink nail polish though, and I couldn’t quite put away the blue eye liner. . . I liked it so much, I’m wearing it today. Watch out Molly Ringwald – I’m the prom queen now.

Enjoy the flashback

Girls asking boys out

Sometimes I see topics on my homepage that look like they’d be an entertaining read. Today’s entertaining read was “How to Ask a Guy Out”.

Apparently I have to be direct. . . No wait, indirect. It says be both or either. Apparently, I’m to invite him but let him feel powerful and in charge. “Hello there, you great example of dominance and fertility, you – How would you like to eat a steak with me tonight? It can be raw and you don’t have to use a fork if you want. . . What? You have to kill a wildebeest with your bare hands and then invent fire? . . Oh, well another time then.”

We have to come up with a plan but don’t over-plan it. So does that mean I can come up with the first four words of the invitation but I have to let the following seven words be spontaneous? I realize I shouldn’t come up to him with a 3 layer cake with “So, you up for some pizza tonight?” I mean seriously, the cake would ruin his appetite and that would be a good $20 down the drain. And I shouldn’t run up all of the sudden and blurt out “Eat pizza with me tonight!” as soon as the thought hit my mind. That’d freak him out and I’d probably get a side cramp from the sudden dash over to ask him.

My favorite part was this “Don’t come on too strong . . .Approach the object of your desire as you would a timid bunny rabbit.” Are you kidding me? Am I to walk slowly because sudden movements would scare him, and slowly stick out my hand so he can smell it and become familiar with me? What’s he going to think? “Oh, she smells like coconuts. I like coconuts. And she moves slowly. I won’t get scared while munching on my lettuce.” Then while on my date, should I offer him carrots and a newspaper to pee on?

No wonder we have issues asking men out! I mean, it’s easy for guys. . . All they have to do is say “Hey, you want to (fill in the blank)?” and we’ll say yes. Women on the other hand have to be directly indirect while planning spontaneously and approaching the guy like he’s a long-eared over-productive rodent.

Moniker boys

I’m a single 34 year old woman. . . I’ve gone on quite a few dates in my life and because of this, have many interesting stories. I think I’ve become the source of entertainment for many of the girls at work, most of whom are married with children and are out of the dating world. Well, because I’ve gone out with several men during my employment here, and have stories about so many others, that the ladies can’t keep track of names. So, we’ve resorted to the nickname system because it’s easier for them to remember (not to say I’m such a hussy that I’ve dated every man in the state of Utah, but maybe because the girls don’t have the best memories.) Anyway, there’s “Bagel or Danish”, “Prof. Plumb”, “Teddy Ruxpin”, “The Yapper”, Pocket-Sized Boyfriend”, “Boop”, and “Crow Bar Tongue” to name a few.

Well, today I went out with “Lawyer” for lunch and we were laughing about bad dates. I mentioned “Crow Bar Tongue” by his alias (partially because I can’t remember his real name . . . the experience was so awful that I think I’ve blocked him out. . . I just remember the experience and his braided belt a-la 1996.) And then he asked me if all my boys have nicknames and if he had one. I explained that many do, because it helps the girls at work with my stories and that his nickname was “Lawyer” because of his profession. . . Pretty self explanatory I suppose.

He decided that he wanted a more impressive moniker and sat there, thinking of different handles for himself. I have to laugh to myself at the whole experience, but it was hard to explain that he was pretty much “Lawyer” and that’s it. . . You can’t change someone’s name once the story has started!

Am I alone in this? Doesn’t everyone have strange boy stories and nicknames for each one?

Adventures in boo boos

Do you ever hear of freak accidents and think “Oh that could never happen to me”?

I have a friend who has them all the time. One time, when shoveling the snow from her roof, she fell off into a snow bank and got stabbed in the butt by an icicle. She had to get several stitches. Another time, she was watching some hot guy cross the street, didn’t notice she was entering a construction zone, and fell into an open manhole- breaking her leg. She popped her hip once when a bike fell on her head. Her primary school class pushed her out a second story window. And, a personal favorite; she was electrocuted by her washing machine.

Hmm, now that I’ve shared bits of my friend’s stories, mine doesn’t seem all that spectacular. That was poor planning on my part.

It was a few years ago, when I worked on the fifth floor of our office building. I was just pushing the button of my floor in an elevator when I noticed a man walking across the lobby towards me. I shot out my hand to stay the doors so that he could enter but it didn’t go as planned. Apparently, I had stuck my hand in the exact center of the entryway and the doors shut before the bumper thingies (I’ll have to look up the technical word for it sometime) even touched my hand.

I howled in pain and surprise as the doors shut and then again after my fingers slammed into the top of the outer doorway. I tried to curl them as they grazed against the walls and doors of floors 2 and 3 while I yanked to get my hand free. It hurt terribly but the situation was so ridiculous that I just found myself laughing and crying the whole time.

Finally, I f reed my hand on the fourth floor and the elevator froze, probably trying to assess what had just happened. I stared down at my hand. The fingertips were red from scraping across all the inner workings of the elevator and the rest of the hand was red and swelling. The elevator started moving again. By the time I had reached my office my knuckles weren’t discernable. At the end of the day, I had a 3 inch wide bruise that circled my whole hand. It was one of the most fabulous wound stories I had ever received and the only witness was that poor guy I left in the lobby who just heard a loud howl as he saw four fingertips ride up the elevator doors.

I showed off the bruise for weeks.