I have told you about The Czarina's parents. Now, let me switch over to the other side of my family -- the Belle side.
Grandpa Belle (his name was Charles) was born in New York state, I believe. He had one sister (Dorothy, who I believe may still be alive somewhere in Florida, although I've never met her). When he was seven years old, his dad walked out on the family for unknown reasons. According to my Aunt J, this wasn't the worst thing that could have happened -- apparently he was a jerk anyway. I don't know any specifics about this situation, because my Aunt J refuses to elaborate. So it must be something awful. Maybe he was a wife beater or a bank robber. Who knows. Whatever the situation, he left his wife and kids destitute.
So from the age of 7 on, my Grandpa Charles was the breadwinner of the family. I don't know why his mother (Emma) couldn't get a job...maybe she did. If she did, it didn't pay much, because my grandpa had to work while he went to school. He managed to support his mother and sister while still doing very well in school. I have no idea how he did this. He did so well in school, in fact, that he received free tuition at Syracuse University.
Go Grandpa!!
So off he went to college. Unfortunately, the scholarship did not cover his room and board, so he had to get a job while he was a full-time college student, majoring in forestry of all things. So he began waiting tables at a restaurant.
I have no idea what Great-Grandma Emma and Great Aunt Dot did for money while he was at school. I need to ask my Aunt J. I guess Dot went to work. Last I heard, she was a redneck who lived in a trailer in Florida. I don't really know much about Dot. I don't even know if she's still alive. I do know that for the rest of his life, no matter how little, my Grandpa Charles always sent money home to his mother. Awww. See, he was a good son.
Meanwhile, my grandma Florence was also being raised in New York somewhere. She was an only child, born to Paul and (his first wife), Belle. The marriage broke up sometime after my grandma was born. I know someone cheated on the other, but I am not sure about who did it. So that's why Belle was the first wife. I'm sure this was extremely scandalous at the time, especially in their WASPy New England society! *shock and awe!*
(In case you haven't noticed, there are a lot of horrible girls' names on my father's side of the family, aside from Emma, which is a nice name. No offense to anyone with these names, but I think they are awful: Florence, Gertrude, Dorothy, Arabella, Prudence and -- I swear to God I am not making this up -- Eulella and Euphemia. WTF? Who hates their kids that much? We always joke that the name Euphemia sounds like a disease: "Yeah, I went to the doctor the other day. He told me I've got euphemia! I have six months to live!")
All joking aside, let's move on.
While Grandpa Charles grew up poor as a church mouse, my Grandma Flo grew up in the lap of luxury. She came from a long line of well-educated, socially distinguished WASPs. Her oldest ancestor actually came over on the Mayflower.
Now, it's not as cool as it sounds -- there are today millions of descendants from each Pilgrim that came over. You or someone you know is probably also related to a Pilgrim. I'm just trying to illustrate how freaking long my family has been in America.
So this is an old family we are talking about. Far different from my Grandpa Charles' family, who came over from Scotland in the comparatively modern decade of the 1740s.
At one point, Grandma Flo's grandfather (or was it her great-grandfather...??) was a dentist in New York City, which I think is super cool, because I think NYC is the coolest place ever. Several members of this branch of my family went to Yale, became professors, doctors and preachers -- that sort of thing. Her father was something in the medical field. I think he was a dentist also.
In short, she made my grandpa look like white trash. It's like one of those 1980s teen movies, where the head cheerleader ends up with that boy from "the wrong side of the tracks". But now I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm just trying to illustrate to you the differences in backgrounds between my grandparents. On paper, it's like, "What?? These two had anything in common??" But you'll see what I mean in a minute.
Grandma Flo also found herself at Syracuse in the early 1930s. She joined a sorority, which she soon discovered was full of lesbians, which didn't sit well with her, and so she dropped out, I think. (Weird, huh? Yeah, my Aunt J knows the coolest, most scandalous family stories! I love it!)
I have no idea what she majored in. Knowing her, she had no business being in college in the first place. Not because she was stupid. She was a sweet lady and I loved her, but dammit she was lazy! She would have been fired from any job she had! But I guess this is how you are when you're born with a silver spoon in your mouth, especially in that day and age -- she probably went to college to meet her future husband, not to chase a career.
I don't know how much of a catch she would have been. She never had to cook, clean, sew, work or do much of anything growing up. She didn't know how to do anything, because the servants had always done it. So it's a good thing my grandpa came along when he did, because she honestly couldn't feed herself, and we already know she couldn't have held a job. So the poor thing would have either lived in her mother's basement or simply died of malnourishment if it hadn't been for my grandpa. She was lucky she was attractive and very, very sweet. She was THE sweetest person you'd ever meet. Always affectionate and warm. I'm sure that's what my grandpa loved about her. I know that's what I liked about her. (She was the only grandparent I ever met.)
Speaking of malnourishment, one evening while at Syracuse, my grandma went with a girlfriend to a restaurant for dinner. (See? I told you she couldn't even feed herself.)
They were looking at their menus, trying to decide on what to order, when their waiter came over to greet them. His name was Charles. And that's how my grandparents met!
It was love at first sight for both of them-- we are talking puppy-dog pathetically in love, here -- and they planned on getting married once they graduated. They enjoyed dating all through college. I know they must have gone to some football games together, because I have seen the ticket stubs. (Yeah, I know. Who keeps college football ticket stubs from the 1930s? That would be my father, World's Biggest Pack Rat.) And I think they took a trip to the Finger Lakes or something, because there's a photo of them in their swimsuits. Aw. Cute, huh?
Too bad that Great-Grandpa Paul did not like his future son-in-law. Nevermind that Charles supported his sister and mother aaaaaall through school while still making such excellent grades that he got a free ride to Syracuse. Nevermind that Charles was totally in love with Florence. What was the problem? He wasn't rich.
Can you believe it? Just wait, it gets worse.
Great-Grandpa Paul disliked the idea of their marriage so much, he wrote her out of the will. His own and only daughter. His only child, in fact. What a jerk, huh? (If you have been paying attention, this same situation happened with my mother's parents -- weird coincidence. What was up with fathers boycotting their daughters' marriages back then? Sheesh!)
So Charles and Florence ended up eloping and having their honeymoon at Niagara Falls.
I know it must have pained her to lose her relationship with her father. Charles and Florence always tried to make amends with Great-Grandpa Paul. They even gave my dad the middle name of Paul, in the hopes that it would encourage him to have a relationship with his grandchildren. It didn't work. My father met Paul once. After that, Paul didn't want anything to do with his grandchildren. Isn't that sad???
My dad was really upset about this as an adult. He actually made us all promise never to use the name Paul for any of our kids! I can't really say I blame him. Ok, back to the story.
Meanwhile, his now-ex-wife, Belle, saw the grandkids rather frequently. She looked like your stereotypical granny -- white hair in a bun, glasses, floral print or black dress, sensible shoes and handbag. She died when her grandkids were very young, so my dad didn't remember her very well. All I know about her is what I see in the old photos.
In the end, Grandpa Charles and Grandma Florence had four children: David (who died when he was 2 days old because the doctor didn't clean out his nasal passages well enough--sad, I know), my dad, my Uncle G and my Aunt J. They moved around a little bit -- Erie, PA to Elkins, WV to Arlington, VA. Grandpa Charles was a forester and worked for the National Forestry Service. In other words, Grandma Florence never lived in the lap of luxury again. They barely made ends meet, and my dad grew up living in middle-class apartments, not a house like other kids.
I'll tell you more about my dad's childhood later. This post is getting too long, and I have a ton of stories about that.
Anyway, that's how my dad's parents met. And they remained deeply in love until the day they died! Aw.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Stories of My Family, Part 3
Since this past weekend was pleasant, but rather uneventful, I thought I'd post a short family story I just learned today. (I have been pumping The Czarina for stories about her parents). So these are some quick stories about my Grandma Virginia's dad.
Apparently, my Great-Grandpa was a total jerk! Examples:
1. I told you how he disapproved of Grandma V's marriage to Grandpa John, because he wasn't a "good" Catholic. She ignored him and married him anyway.
2. Great-Grandpa also wrote a letter to Grandma V when she was young. He said he'd rather see her in a coffin than marry a non-Catholic. (WOW.)
3. Grandma V's sister, Helen, also got some bad advice from her dad. He told Helen that she and her fiance should wait until after WWII was over to get married, just in case he came home an amputee. (HOLY COW.) Helen wisely ignored this advice, too, and married Byrne before he went to war. And no, I don't think he was injured in the war. They were also happily married.
Great-Grandpa did not attend either wedding. (I told you he was a jerk!)
4. He was one of those dads who made you pick out your own switch. And if he thought it was too small....well....he got to pick it! One time when she was little, Grandma V kept a kitten after he told her she couldn't keep it. She had hidden it somewhere, and he found out. She got the switch! (Jeez Louise!)
5. He gave my Great-Grandmother $30 a month to run a household with 7 children. Even in 1920s money, that is very little. Especially when that includes food, clothing, cleaning and well, everything! During the Great Depression, they had to take in some family cousins who were out of work, which added an additional strain on her budget. I don't know how she did it.
Apparently, Great-Grandma had the patience of a saint, because that is exactly what she did for years and years -- she ran the house on a very tight budget. The only time she got a break was during the summer, when all the kids were shipped out to the family farm to help out. When the girls came home at the end of the summer, they were all tan and freckled, which was not very classy, back in the day. So she would make them bleach their skin with lemons before they were allowed in the parlor when guests came over! She didn't want them looking like farm hands in front of company. Isn't that funny? How times have changed...
One day, one of the daughters was getting married, and the wedding reception was held at the house, so Great-Grandma was getting everything ready for the big party. She noticed the kitchen needed painting, so she was up on a ladder, putting on a fresh coat.
Great-Grandpa walked in with some news: "I just came from the accountant's office! He told me the family firecracker business is worth a half a million dollars!"
Apparently, all his penny pinching paid off in the end! The firecracker business is still doing well to this day, and is still run by my family!
Great-Grandma climbed down the ladder, handed him the paintbrush and said to him, "Well, then you can afford to hire someone to paint this damn kitchen!"
This was the only time she ever said a word to him about his cheap ways!
And yes, he did hire someone to paint the kitchen. :)
Hey -- we still use my Great-Grandma's Applesauce Cake recipe. Wanna make it? You can find the recipe here.
Apparently, my Great-Grandpa was a total jerk! Examples:
1. I told you how he disapproved of Grandma V's marriage to Grandpa John, because he wasn't a "good" Catholic. She ignored him and married him anyway.
2. Great-Grandpa also wrote a letter to Grandma V when she was young. He said he'd rather see her in a coffin than marry a non-Catholic. (WOW.)
3. Grandma V's sister, Helen, also got some bad advice from her dad. He told Helen that she and her fiance should wait until after WWII was over to get married, just in case he came home an amputee. (HOLY COW.) Helen wisely ignored this advice, too, and married Byrne before he went to war. And no, I don't think he was injured in the war. They were also happily married.
Great-Grandpa did not attend either wedding. (I told you he was a jerk!)
4. He was one of those dads who made you pick out your own switch. And if he thought it was too small....well....he got to pick it! One time when she was little, Grandma V kept a kitten after he told her she couldn't keep it. She had hidden it somewhere, and he found out. She got the switch! (Jeez Louise!)
5. He gave my Great-Grandmother $30 a month to run a household with 7 children. Even in 1920s money, that is very little. Especially when that includes food, clothing, cleaning and well, everything! During the Great Depression, they had to take in some family cousins who were out of work, which added an additional strain on her budget. I don't know how she did it.
Apparently, Great-Grandma had the patience of a saint, because that is exactly what she did for years and years -- she ran the house on a very tight budget. The only time she got a break was during the summer, when all the kids were shipped out to the family farm to help out. When the girls came home at the end of the summer, they were all tan and freckled, which was not very classy, back in the day. So she would make them bleach their skin with lemons before they were allowed in the parlor when guests came over! She didn't want them looking like farm hands in front of company. Isn't that funny? How times have changed...
One day, one of the daughters was getting married, and the wedding reception was held at the house, so Great-Grandma was getting everything ready for the big party. She noticed the kitchen needed painting, so she was up on a ladder, putting on a fresh coat.
Great-Grandpa walked in with some news: "I just came from the accountant's office! He told me the family firecracker business is worth a half a million dollars!"
Apparently, all his penny pinching paid off in the end! The firecracker business is still doing well to this day, and is still run by my family!
Great-Grandma climbed down the ladder, handed him the paintbrush and said to him, "Well, then you can afford to hire someone to paint this damn kitchen!"
This was the only time she ever said a word to him about his cheap ways!
And yes, he did hire someone to paint the kitchen. :)
Hey -- we still use my Great-Grandma's Applesauce Cake recipe. Wanna make it? You can find the recipe here.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Stories of My Family, Part 2
This is the story about my Grandma Virginia. She was The Czarina's mother, and yes, I am named after her.
Virginia grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, the daughter of German-Irish stock. (I can't remember if she was half German or a quarter German...anyway, it's not important). Being Catholics, they had your typical large family. Here were the names of some of her siblings: Wilbur, Harold, Helen, Jerry...I know there were more, but I can't remember their names. I believe there were 9 children in all. Eventually, they all ended up getting married and having a between 2 and 6 children a piece. That was three generations ago.
By this point in time, there are approximately 5.2 million people in this branch of my family, which means that every resident of Kansas City is a first, second or third cousin of mine. When they have family reunions, each little segment of the family has to wear a designated-color tshirt, or else no one would know who the hell anyone is.
But I digress.
I don't know a lot about Grandma Virginia. I never met her or my Grandpa John. You see, both of my mom's parents died when she was about 21. Grandpa John was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Three months later, Grandma Virginia was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. They died less than a year apart, when my mom was fresh out of college. Not surprisingly, this was rather traumatizing to The Czarina, who has a difficult time talking about her parents at all, to this day. (Oh crap, I'm getting sad again.)
So I don't know a whole lot about her. But I do know the following:
1. She is where my mother and I get our love of efficiency from. We enjoy being productive and making the most of our time. Apparently, multi-tasking IS genetic. We joke about how "German" we are. We are Type-A and want everything streamlined.
2. This is also where I get some of my penny-pinching ways from. Not that I'm a penny pincher. My bank account would be Exhibit A in that court case. But I do have my moments. Lord knows I didn't get it from my dad's side or Grandpa John's side. They were both constitutionally against saving money on anything. In fact, I believe it was physically painful for them to save money.
3. Grandma Virginia is responsible for the vast majority of my family's recipes, including the biscuit recipe, which originated with my great-great grandmother, who was a pioneer out west back in the 1800s. To this day, we make Grandma's gravy, pot roast, beef stew and spaghetti, among other things. She handed down this love of cooking to her daughter and granddaughter. We are all good cooks. I have a soup pot that belonged to her, and the handle just broke on it, and I'm really upset.
4. Apparently, my love of shoes was something I also have in common with Grandma V. Although my size 9 feet are nothing like her tiny size 6s (she was barely five feet tall, after all), the passion is the same: when it comes to heels, the higher, the better, the more, the merrier. Grandma used to go to the Saxon shoe sale in Richmond twice a year and buy about ten pairs at a time. This just makes my heart swell with pride. (By the way, if you are ever in Richmond and you love shoes, you have GOT to go to Saxon. It is the Holy Grail of shoedom.)
I don't know a lot about her childhood or her single-girl years, but I do know that she dated a guy (I think his name was Charlie) who was crazy about her. They had grown up together, and dated for a long time, ever since she was in high school. When World War II broke out, they decided to wait until after the war to get married. But he gave her this beautiful gold and mother-of-pearl locket to remember him by when he left. He even engraved it with a little love note and the date. We still have it. They wrote letters to each other, until one day, Virginia heard through the grapevine that Charlie had been killed in action or was missing in action -- something like that. (Oops, there goes the sad thing again!)
At about the same time, Grandma Virginia attempted to attend college, but was ultimately dismissed because on a dare, she rode a horse through downtown Kansas City, disrupting traffic and I assume, breaking several laws. This was not very acceptable behavior for a good German Catholic girl, and so she was kicked out of college.
Hmmm, this must also be where I get my wild streak.....
I am not sure why, but this, along with the sad news about Charlie, may have been the reason she decided to move to Washington state and work for Boeing during World War II.
She got a job as a secretary in the Headquarters building at Boeing. One day, she was sitting at her desk, doing some work, when a very tall (6'3") young, thin man walked up to her.
She didn't recognize him. "May I help you?" she asked.
He leaned on the desk and casually asked over his shoulder, "How 'bout a cup o' coffee, Babe?"
And that is how my grandparents met.
They started dating immediately, and Grandpa was a total goner for her -- hook, line and sinker. They reached a crossroads when World War II came to an end: their jobs were also coming to an end, since there was no longer a need for new wartime aircraft. This meant that Virginia was going to move back home to Kansas City.
This did not sit well with Grandpa John.
So he followed her there uninvited. He somehow found her parents' house and knocked on the door. After explaining to her mother who he was, Virginia came down to talk to him alone in the living room. Grandma V's mom left them alone so they could talk privately. A few minutes later, there was a big commotion. Much to the family's surprise, they ran into the living room to find John, chasing Virginia in circles around the sofa, pleading with her to marry him.
This did not sit well with Virginia's father, who was a big jerk and thought Virginia should only marry a German Catholic, not an Irish Catholic. (Because they are SO different, right?!)
But it didn't sit well with Virginia, either. She said to John: "I won't marry you until you quit drinking and save up $1,000."
As we all know from the last post, John liked to drink. A LOT. It was pretty much his only hobby. But he was also terrible with money, as I just mentioned. So this was a double-whammy challenge for him.
"Okay," John said.
He quit drinking that day, and found a job. He saved up $1,000 and went straight back to Virginia's house to propose again. This time, he had a ring and she said yes. They got married on January 11, 1945 and had their honeymoon in New Orleans.
Their wedding pictures are really funny, because he's more than a foot taller than her.
Her father didn't walk her down the aisle, because he didn't approve of her marrying an Irishman. (He didn't walk any of his daughters down the aisle, actually, because none of them married German Catholics. I think the girls did it for spite, actually.) I think he got over it, eventually, though. Czarina spent many happy summers visiting her Kansas City cousins and eating her grandmother's applesauce cake. So things couldn't have been too bad between Grandma V and her dad.
Grandpa John never drank a drop of alcohol again for the rest of his life.
But that was the first and last time he ever saved $1,000.
And what about Charlie? Well, I just realized, after typing all of this, that I have posted the Charlie story before. Duh! Go read the side-story about Charlie here. It's the freakin' saddest thing I've ever heard of in my life.
Virginia grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, the daughter of German-Irish stock. (I can't remember if she was half German or a quarter German...anyway, it's not important). Being Catholics, they had your typical large family. Here were the names of some of her siblings: Wilbur, Harold, Helen, Jerry...I know there were more, but I can't remember their names. I believe there were 9 children in all. Eventually, they all ended up getting married and having a between 2 and 6 children a piece. That was three generations ago.
By this point in time, there are approximately 5.2 million people in this branch of my family, which means that every resident of Kansas City is a first, second or third cousin of mine. When they have family reunions, each little segment of the family has to wear a designated-color tshirt, or else no one would know who the hell anyone is.
But I digress.
I don't know a lot about Grandma Virginia. I never met her or my Grandpa John. You see, both of my mom's parents died when she was about 21. Grandpa John was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Three months later, Grandma Virginia was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. They died less than a year apart, when my mom was fresh out of college. Not surprisingly, this was rather traumatizing to The Czarina, who has a difficult time talking about her parents at all, to this day. (Oh crap, I'm getting sad again.)
So I don't know a whole lot about her. But I do know the following:
1. She is where my mother and I get our love of efficiency from. We enjoy being productive and making the most of our time. Apparently, multi-tasking IS genetic. We joke about how "German" we are. We are Type-A and want everything streamlined.
2. This is also where I get some of my penny-pinching ways from. Not that I'm a penny pincher. My bank account would be Exhibit A in that court case. But I do have my moments. Lord knows I didn't get it from my dad's side or Grandpa John's side. They were both constitutionally against saving money on anything. In fact, I believe it was physically painful for them to save money.
3. Grandma Virginia is responsible for the vast majority of my family's recipes, including the biscuit recipe, which originated with my great-great grandmother, who was a pioneer out west back in the 1800s. To this day, we make Grandma's gravy, pot roast, beef stew and spaghetti, among other things. She handed down this love of cooking to her daughter and granddaughter. We are all good cooks. I have a soup pot that belonged to her, and the handle just broke on it, and I'm really upset.
4. Apparently, my love of shoes was something I also have in common with Grandma V. Although my size 9 feet are nothing like her tiny size 6s (she was barely five feet tall, after all), the passion is the same: when it comes to heels, the higher, the better, the more, the merrier. Grandma used to go to the Saxon shoe sale in Richmond twice a year and buy about ten pairs at a time. This just makes my heart swell with pride. (By the way, if you are ever in Richmond and you love shoes, you have GOT to go to Saxon. It is the Holy Grail of shoedom.)
I don't know a lot about her childhood or her single-girl years, but I do know that she dated a guy (I think his name was Charlie) who was crazy about her. They had grown up together, and dated for a long time, ever since she was in high school. When World War II broke out, they decided to wait until after the war to get married. But he gave her this beautiful gold and mother-of-pearl locket to remember him by when he left. He even engraved it with a little love note and the date. We still have it. They wrote letters to each other, until one day, Virginia heard through the grapevine that Charlie had been killed in action or was missing in action -- something like that. (Oops, there goes the sad thing again!)
At about the same time, Grandma Virginia attempted to attend college, but was ultimately dismissed because on a dare, she rode a horse through downtown Kansas City, disrupting traffic and I assume, breaking several laws. This was not very acceptable behavior for a good German Catholic girl, and so she was kicked out of college.
Hmmm, this must also be where I get my wild streak.....
I am not sure why, but this, along with the sad news about Charlie, may have been the reason she decided to move to Washington state and work for Boeing during World War II.
She got a job as a secretary in the Headquarters building at Boeing. One day, she was sitting at her desk, doing some work, when a very tall (6'3") young, thin man walked up to her.
She didn't recognize him. "May I help you?" she asked.
He leaned on the desk and casually asked over his shoulder, "How 'bout a cup o' coffee, Babe?"
And that is how my grandparents met.
They started dating immediately, and Grandpa was a total goner for her -- hook, line and sinker. They reached a crossroads when World War II came to an end: their jobs were also coming to an end, since there was no longer a need for new wartime aircraft. This meant that Virginia was going to move back home to Kansas City.
This did not sit well with Grandpa John.
So he followed her there uninvited. He somehow found her parents' house and knocked on the door. After explaining to her mother who he was, Virginia came down to talk to him alone in the living room. Grandma V's mom left them alone so they could talk privately. A few minutes later, there was a big commotion. Much to the family's surprise, they ran into the living room to find John, chasing Virginia in circles around the sofa, pleading with her to marry him.
This did not sit well with Virginia's father, who was a big jerk and thought Virginia should only marry a German Catholic, not an Irish Catholic. (Because they are SO different, right?!)
But it didn't sit well with Virginia, either. She said to John: "I won't marry you until you quit drinking and save up $1,000."
As we all know from the last post, John liked to drink. A LOT. It was pretty much his only hobby. But he was also terrible with money, as I just mentioned. So this was a double-whammy challenge for him.
"Okay," John said.
He quit drinking that day, and found a job. He saved up $1,000 and went straight back to Virginia's house to propose again. This time, he had a ring and she said yes. They got married on January 11, 1945 and had their honeymoon in New Orleans.
Their wedding pictures are really funny, because he's more than a foot taller than her.
Her father didn't walk her down the aisle, because he didn't approve of her marrying an Irishman. (He didn't walk any of his daughters down the aisle, actually, because none of them married German Catholics. I think the girls did it for spite, actually.) I think he got over it, eventually, though. Czarina spent many happy summers visiting her Kansas City cousins and eating her grandmother's applesauce cake. So things couldn't have been too bad between Grandma V and her dad.
Grandpa John never drank a drop of alcohol again for the rest of his life.
But that was the first and last time he ever saved $1,000.
And what about Charlie? Well, I just realized, after typing all of this, that I have posted the Charlie story before. Duh! Go read the side-story about Charlie here. It's the freakin' saddest thing I've ever heard of in my life.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Stories of My Family, Part 1
I was talking about The Czarina's parents the other day, and realized I have never blogged about them. So here we go!
Let's do Grandpa John first. His parents met in a very interesting way. His dad (Thomas), the son of Irish immigrants, may or may not have immigrated to the U.S. illegally! You see, his parents came over after the Great Potato Famine, but settled at first in Canada. Then, things get a little fuzzy, and suddenly they are in Wisconsin, claiming to be natural-born U.S. Citizens on the census, which we know is not true. So we think there is some illegal border-crossing going on somewhere. Anyway, Thomas went to law school at the University of Wisconsin, after convincing them that he is also a U.S. Citizen, although we think he was born in Canada.
A few years later, he was on vacation from his job as a lawyer/businessman in Virginia. He decided to go to a resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas. At almost 50, it was well-believed by the family that he would just end up an old bachelor.
Meanwhile, a young lady named Mary Ellen was going on a trip. She and her sister and mother were leaving Ireland to go visit some relatives in Denver, Colorado. (They were actually going to visit James Denver, a distant cousin whom the city was named after -- cool, huh? Yeah, I have a Colorado connection!)
Ok, um...I just read that Wikipedia entry, and now I am not so sure they were actually going to Denver, or if they were just visiting Cousin Denver in Washington, DC...because apparently, after 1858, Cousin Denver only went to Denver for visits--he didn't live there anymore. And I know all of this took place after 1858.......hmmm.......will have to ask Czarina about that.
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes.
Since it was a long trip, the women decided to take a break in -- you guessed it -- Hot Springs, Arkansas. They stayed at the same resort where Thomas was. Although she was half his age, it was love at first sight and they got married right away. Mary Ellen, her sister and her mother never went back to Ireland! They all moved with Mary Ellen and Thomas to Norfolk, Virginia. That branch of my family--the Irish branch-- is still there.
They had 4 kids. The 2nd one was my Grandpa John. Family legend states that John was very rascally and often in trouble with authority figures! He was not malicious or anything, just acting like little boys do. (I like to say that this behavior is genetic, as my brothers were also totally obnoxious children.)
Unfortunately for the family, the birth of the fourth and youngest child (a girl) did not go very well. Mary Ellen needed a blood transfusion. But this was before anyone really understood blood types--all they knew was that sometimes transfusions worked, and sometimes they didn't. It was a roll of the dice. And Mary Ellen apparently got the wrong kind of blood, and so she died soon afterwards. Everyone in the family took it very, very hard.
Sad, I know. But it's ok. If you have read Angela's Ashes, you know by now that the Irish race is full of sad stories. But sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are funny. Ok, back to the story.
Soon after Mary Ellen died, the 1929 stock market crash hit, and all of Thomas's investments and businesses went belly up. The financial ruin, combined with the sudden loss of his wife and the worries about raising 4 young children (when he was already so old) were too much for Thomas to handle, so he basically locked himself in a room and turned into an alcoholic.
Crap. This is sad again, I know! But this is my family, so I can't just make up stuff here. There are lots of Irish alcoholics in my family, unfortunately...as you will soon see....
Meanwhile, the kids were running amok because Thomas was too drunk to take care of them. And since there was no money, there were lots of unpaid bills. So their Aunt and Grandma stepped in and cared for the kids. They sent the boys to military school (which they hated) and the only daughter ended up being raised by the Aunt. Then Aunt and Grandma sold everything in the house to pay the bills. (The only things we have left from that house are a chair and a clock!) They even had to sell the house. Thomas ended up living in a hotel and dying in poverty, I believe. (Ugh, sorry this is so depressing guys...but Irish families rarely have happy stories.)
Ok, so meanwhile, my Grandpa John graduates from military school and moves back to Norfolk, where he becomes a soda jerk, moves into a boarding house with his brother* and proceeds to pursue his new favorite hobby: alcoholism. It was at this point when the Great Depression really kicked in. Talk about bad timing.
This is where it gets kinda foggy. Although Grandpa John eventually quit drinking, as you will see later on in my story, he was always ashamed of it and didn't like to talk about the Great Depression when he was basically wasted and unemployed for an entire decade. (Can you blame him?) All we know is that during the Great Depression, he was a hobo who rode the empty freight train cars and he spent some time in Chicago. During this time, he also discovered a passion: journalism. But that's all he ever told anyone.
I like to think, with my overactive imagination, that he was a member of 'Bugs' Moran's North Side Gang, which was an Irish gang involved in prostitution, racketeering and gambling rings and fought continuously with Al Capone's gang, culminating in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
But that is purely speculation.
And vehemently denied by my mother. Who apparently, has no imagination.
So who knows what my grandpa really did besides jump trains and drink cheap booze between 1929-1939. I guess I will never know. When WWII did break out, Grandpa John decided that putting himself at risk of death every day was worth it to have food in his mouth, so he went to join the military. Unfortunately, he was soon kicked out because he was drunk all the time. Oops. Now what?
Bad, I know. But it's ok. It gets better.
At any rate, thank goodness for World War II's effect on the U.S. economy, or else I may not be here today. Gramps probably would have ended up in a gutter somewhere, pulling a Jimmy Hendrix, asphyxiating on his own vomit or something.
But that didn't happen. What happened was, the U.S. entered WWII, and we needed to build some planes. A LOT of planes. That is when Boeing got a big-ass government contract and hired thousands of people to build planes at their huge building facilities in Washington state. It was sort of like an army base, only it was full of civilians who built airplanes. Lots of Rosie the Riveters.
They had so many employees (we are talking about 50,000 here) that it became necessary to have employee housing. Which means they will need schools, a hospital, grocery stores, and everything else a large group of people would need. Including a newspaper.
Grandpa John somehow managed to get a job with Boeing. He was in charge of the factory base's newspaper. And one day, he went over to the headquarters building to interview one of the Boeing Big Shots...........
Ok, that's all for today.
When does he meet Virginia? Does Grandpa John ever stop drinking alcohol? Or is VB's mother conceived in a drunken hook up? What happens on the interview? Stay tuned to see what happens next!!
* I actually just found this out recently, because I was geeking out in a genealogy database, and looked him up in the U.S. Census of 1930. I was so excited, I called The Czarina, who had no clue her dad had ever been a soda jerk, let alone rented an apt with his brother!
Let's do Grandpa John first. His parents met in a very interesting way. His dad (Thomas), the son of Irish immigrants, may or may not have immigrated to the U.S. illegally! You see, his parents came over after the Great Potato Famine, but settled at first in Canada. Then, things get a little fuzzy, and suddenly they are in Wisconsin, claiming to be natural-born U.S. Citizens on the census, which we know is not true. So we think there is some illegal border-crossing going on somewhere. Anyway, Thomas went to law school at the University of Wisconsin, after convincing them that he is also a U.S. Citizen, although we think he was born in Canada.
A few years later, he was on vacation from his job as a lawyer/businessman in Virginia. He decided to go to a resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas. At almost 50, it was well-believed by the family that he would just end up an old bachelor.
Meanwhile, a young lady named Mary Ellen was going on a trip. She and her sister and mother were leaving Ireland to go visit some relatives in Denver, Colorado. (They were actually going to visit James Denver, a distant cousin whom the city was named after -- cool, huh? Yeah, I have a Colorado connection!)
Ok, um...I just read that Wikipedia entry, and now I am not so sure they were actually going to Denver, or if they were just visiting Cousin Denver in Washington, DC...because apparently, after 1858, Cousin Denver only went to Denver for visits--he didn't live there anymore. And I know all of this took place after 1858.......hmmm.......will have to ask Czarina about that.
Sorry. Where was I? Oh yes.
Since it was a long trip, the women decided to take a break in -- you guessed it -- Hot Springs, Arkansas. They stayed at the same resort where Thomas was. Although she was half his age, it was love at first sight and they got married right away. Mary Ellen, her sister and her mother never went back to Ireland! They all moved with Mary Ellen and Thomas to Norfolk, Virginia. That branch of my family--the Irish branch-- is still there.
They had 4 kids. The 2nd one was my Grandpa John. Family legend states that John was very rascally and often in trouble with authority figures! He was not malicious or anything, just acting like little boys do. (I like to say that this behavior is genetic, as my brothers were also totally obnoxious children.)
Unfortunately for the family, the birth of the fourth and youngest child (a girl) did not go very well. Mary Ellen needed a blood transfusion. But this was before anyone really understood blood types--all they knew was that sometimes transfusions worked, and sometimes they didn't. It was a roll of the dice. And Mary Ellen apparently got the wrong kind of blood, and so she died soon afterwards. Everyone in the family took it very, very hard.
Sad, I know. But it's ok. If you have read Angela's Ashes, you know by now that the Irish race is full of sad stories. But sometimes they are happy and sometimes they are funny. Ok, back to the story.
Soon after Mary Ellen died, the 1929 stock market crash hit, and all of Thomas's investments and businesses went belly up. The financial ruin, combined with the sudden loss of his wife and the worries about raising 4 young children (when he was already so old) were too much for Thomas to handle, so he basically locked himself in a room and turned into an alcoholic.
Crap. This is sad again, I know! But this is my family, so I can't just make up stuff here. There are lots of Irish alcoholics in my family, unfortunately...as you will soon see....
Meanwhile, the kids were running amok because Thomas was too drunk to take care of them. And since there was no money, there were lots of unpaid bills. So their Aunt and Grandma stepped in and cared for the kids. They sent the boys to military school (which they hated) and the only daughter ended up being raised by the Aunt. Then Aunt and Grandma sold everything in the house to pay the bills. (The only things we have left from that house are a chair and a clock!) They even had to sell the house. Thomas ended up living in a hotel and dying in poverty, I believe. (Ugh, sorry this is so depressing guys...but Irish families rarely have happy stories.)
Ok, so meanwhile, my Grandpa John graduates from military school and moves back to Norfolk, where he becomes a soda jerk, moves into a boarding house with his brother* and proceeds to pursue his new favorite hobby: alcoholism. It was at this point when the Great Depression really kicked in. Talk about bad timing.
This is where it gets kinda foggy. Although Grandpa John eventually quit drinking, as you will see later on in my story, he was always ashamed of it and didn't like to talk about the Great Depression when he was basically wasted and unemployed for an entire decade. (Can you blame him?) All we know is that during the Great Depression, he was a hobo who rode the empty freight train cars and he spent some time in Chicago. During this time, he also discovered a passion: journalism. But that's all he ever told anyone.
I like to think, with my overactive imagination, that he was a member of 'Bugs' Moran's North Side Gang, which was an Irish gang involved in prostitution, racketeering and gambling rings and fought continuously with Al Capone's gang, culminating in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
But that is purely speculation.
And vehemently denied by my mother. Who apparently, has no imagination.
So who knows what my grandpa really did besides jump trains and drink cheap booze between 1929-1939. I guess I will never know. When WWII did break out, Grandpa John decided that putting himself at risk of death every day was worth it to have food in his mouth, so he went to join the military. Unfortunately, he was soon kicked out because he was drunk all the time. Oops. Now what?
Bad, I know. But it's ok. It gets better.
At any rate, thank goodness for World War II's effect on the U.S. economy, or else I may not be here today. Gramps probably would have ended up in a gutter somewhere, pulling a Jimmy Hendrix, asphyxiating on his own vomit or something.
But that didn't happen. What happened was, the U.S. entered WWII, and we needed to build some planes. A LOT of planes. That is when Boeing got a big-ass government contract and hired thousands of people to build planes at their huge building facilities in Washington state. It was sort of like an army base, only it was full of civilians who built airplanes. Lots of Rosie the Riveters.
They had so many employees (we are talking about 50,000 here) that it became necessary to have employee housing. Which means they will need schools, a hospital, grocery stores, and everything else a large group of people would need. Including a newspaper.
Grandpa John somehow managed to get a job with Boeing. He was in charge of the factory base's newspaper. And one day, he went over to the headquarters building to interview one of the Boeing Big Shots...........
Ok, that's all for today.
When does he meet Virginia? Does Grandpa John ever stop drinking alcohol? Or is VB's mother conceived in a drunken hook up? What happens on the interview? Stay tuned to see what happens next!!
* I actually just found this out recently, because I was geeking out in a genealogy database, and looked him up in the U.S. Census of 1930. I was so excited, I called The Czarina, who had no clue her dad had ever been a soda jerk, let alone rented an apt with his brother!
Friday, September 28, 2007
South Africa Loves Me
One of my lurkers recently emailed me to ask for an invite to read this blog, and she mentioned that she heard about my blog through the South African version of Cosmopolitan magazine.
What?!
I was not aware of this, so I asked for more details. She told me the issue it appeared in, and so I sent an email to its editor asking for a copy of the article. I was so glad to open my email today and find that the editor sent me a PDF of the article! I guess they have a "Hot Stuff" section in each issue, and for the month of August, my blog was the "Hot Blog". WOOT!!
I have been wondering why my statcounter shows so many hits from South Africa. And now I know. I'm famous there!
I tried to figure out how to post a copy of the article here for you, but it's in PDF, which Blogger does not support. I also looked into putting it on Google Docs, and then linking to it from here. Again, no such luck--the little blurb about my blog disappeared when I converted it into txt format. So you are going to have to take my word for it. But here's what it said:
"We love it because she gives us insight into the naive yet neurotic world of a 20-something American country girl. She’s a complete pink-packaged anomaly, confessing that her
musical taste goes from hip-hop to rock and country music –and her musings range from the arb to the occasionally substantial. But a weird thing happens to you when you’re reading – you start to see patterns in her life that also exist in yours, almost 14, 000 km away."
Hmmm. It sounds like they haven't read too much of my blog. I rarely talk about music on here. And I'm not quite sure why they think of me as a "country" girl. I also do not know what they mean by "pink-packaged anomaly", but I like that they describe me as a naive yet neurotic girl! LOL , that's pretty accurate. Not a glowing review, but a good one, at least.
Maybe I need to get one of those tshirts that say: "I'm kind of a big deal."
Ha Ha!
Talking about South Africa reminds me of a story about my dad, actually. My parents met at work in Washington, DC. But right before they met, WLF had to take a business trip to South Africa, which as you know is home to many diamond mines.
Since they were so cheap, WLF decided to buy some while he was there. Although he was divorced at the time, he hoped he'd get married again one day and could give a diamond to a new wife in an engagement ring. The back-up plan was that he'd just end up giving them to his sister or his oldest daughter (my older half-sister, Banana). So he bought two or three of them.
Due to customs regulations, he was not allowed to bring back the biggest one with him on the plane. It had to be shipped to him. He said that would be fine, and so he left his address with the diamond salesman.
He arrived back in the States and meets the new mail girl, who also happened to be my mother. It's love at first sight, and he begins to pursue her relentlessly (remember, he asked her out to lunch every day for a YEAR before she said yes!). Meanwhile, the diamond is getting shipped to him.
One day, he goes to get his mail out of the mailbox. Inside is a plain white envelope, with a hand-written address. The return address read: Capetown, South Africa. He opened it easily, because it was just licked like any regular envelope would be. Inside was the diamond. No wrapping, no insurance, no letter, nada. Just a plain envelope with a 3 carat diamond inside. It had been mailed halfway across the world without being lost or stolen. It was pretty incredible, actually, if you think about how many hands must have handled that envelope.
About 2 years later, it was put into The Czarina's engagement ring.
Cool story, huh?
What?!
I was not aware of this, so I asked for more details. She told me the issue it appeared in, and so I sent an email to its editor asking for a copy of the article. I was so glad to open my email today and find that the editor sent me a PDF of the article! I guess they have a "Hot Stuff" section in each issue, and for the month of August, my blog was the "Hot Blog". WOOT!!
I have been wondering why my statcounter shows so many hits from South Africa. And now I know. I'm famous there!
I tried to figure out how to post a copy of the article here for you, but it's in PDF, which Blogger does not support. I also looked into putting it on Google Docs, and then linking to it from here. Again, no such luck--the little blurb about my blog disappeared when I converted it into txt format. So you are going to have to take my word for it. But here's what it said:
"We love it because she gives us insight into the naive yet neurotic world of a 20-something American country girl. She’s a complete pink-packaged anomaly, confessing that her
musical taste goes from hip-hop to rock and country music –and her musings range from the arb to the occasionally substantial. But a weird thing happens to you when you’re reading – you start to see patterns in her life that also exist in yours, almost 14, 000 km away."
Hmmm. It sounds like they haven't read too much of my blog. I rarely talk about music on here. And I'm not quite sure why they think of me as a "country" girl. I also do not know what they mean by "pink-packaged anomaly", but I like that they describe me as a naive yet neurotic girl! LOL , that's pretty accurate. Not a glowing review, but a good one, at least.
Maybe I need to get one of those tshirts that say: "I'm kind of a big deal."
Ha Ha!
Talking about South Africa reminds me of a story about my dad, actually. My parents met at work in Washington, DC. But right before they met, WLF had to take a business trip to South Africa, which as you know is home to many diamond mines.
Since they were so cheap, WLF decided to buy some while he was there. Although he was divorced at the time, he hoped he'd get married again one day and could give a diamond to a new wife in an engagement ring. The back-up plan was that he'd just end up giving them to his sister or his oldest daughter (my older half-sister, Banana). So he bought two or three of them.
Due to customs regulations, he was not allowed to bring back the biggest one with him on the plane. It had to be shipped to him. He said that would be fine, and so he left his address with the diamond salesman.
He arrived back in the States and meets the new mail girl, who also happened to be my mother. It's love at first sight, and he begins to pursue her relentlessly (remember, he asked her out to lunch every day for a YEAR before she said yes!). Meanwhile, the diamond is getting shipped to him.
One day, he goes to get his mail out of the mailbox. Inside is a plain white envelope, with a hand-written address. The return address read: Capetown, South Africa. He opened it easily, because it was just licked like any regular envelope would be. Inside was the diamond. No wrapping, no insurance, no letter, nada. Just a plain envelope with a 3 carat diamond inside. It had been mailed halfway across the world without being lost or stolen. It was pretty incredible, actually, if you think about how many hands must have handled that envelope.
About 2 years later, it was put into The Czarina's engagement ring.
Cool story, huh?
Monday, May 21, 2007
WLF Goes to the Beach
Let's see....not the most eventful week of my life, in case you can't tell from my lack of posting.
I could tell you about having to sit next to a guy from Romania who had B.O.
Or I could tell you about seeing a great local band the other night (Villanova).
I could tell you that I saw Hoochie McSkankerton (aka Wednesday Skank) sucking face with Hot Neighbor this weekend. In his driveway. In daylight. In front of his kids. (Is it just me, or is 2 months kind of soon to be making out in front of the kiddies???)
I could tell you that Shrek the Third was decent. But perhaps you should wait for the DVD.
I could tell you that the portrayal of librarians in Party Girl and Tomcats were....interesting. And although not great movies, they did have their funny moments. Librarians are very wild girls, according to Hollywood. Woot!
I could mention that I am officially up to running 3 miles now. With a small break in-between miles 2 and 3. Go me.
Or I could tell you that I left my doggie bag behind at a restaurant this weekend and I was SO MAD, because I always do that. Which sucks even more when you are broke and were hoping to have the leftovers for dinner tonight. GAH I am still pissed at myself, just thinking about it.
I could tell you how my brother Fungus got to eat dinner with this guy recently. No, I am not kidding. A friend of the family got an extra ticket to a gala dinner where he spoke, and he gave the ticket to Fungus. So I'm sure he didn't get to meet him, just share a meal with him. Kinda. Neat, huh?
I could tell you about hanging out with all my girls this weeekend: Friday's dinner with the Happy Hour Peeps. Saturday's BBQ lunch w/MJ & KT (and MJ's brother & sis-in-law) and Sunday's dinner at a Chinese/Japanese/Sushi restaurant with the Nurses and Healthy Girl. But it was just good times, not much to report.
Really, I pretty much just summed everything up for you. This leaves me with a problem: what should I post today? Hmmm...sounds like it's time for a story! WOOT!
Have I told you about the time WLF went to the beach? No? Ok, this is a good one.
At some point in his youth, I think when he was in college, WLF (aka My Dad) went to the beach with his buddies one summer. (So this is probably somewhere in Virginia or Maryland, in the 1950s, for those of you who want a setting.)
They were there for about a week. Aside from getting up one morning (to find they were out of milk) and putting beer on his breakfast cereal --- EWWWWW --- he just had a good time partying it up on the surf and sand.
But one night was unforgettable.....
Apparently, there was some all-girl's school at this beach-front town. WLF and his buddies found out where the girls' dormitory was. It was directly across the street from the beach. Enjoying the wonderful beach breezes, the girls kept their windows open at night as they slept.
Big. Mistake.
You see, nighttime is when the crabs come out. Hundreds of little crabs, all over the beach. And you really don't want to combine that wonder of nature with a group of college-aged young men who are on vacation with not much to do. Besides drink beer.
See where this is going? Yeah.
So WLF and his buddies grab buckets and start collecting crabs. Tons of them. They completely fill the buckets with live crabs. They wait until the lights in the dormitory had been out for about a half hour. Then they climb up the fire escape to the 2nd floor, walk over to the open window...........and begin to dump the buckets. Hundreds of crabs scurry all over the hardwood floors, making for a very creepy cacophony of little crustacean legs. But the sleeping women do not notice.
At first.
Giggling, WLF and his buddies ran back down the fire escape to sit on the curb across the street from the dormitory. They each pop a can of beer......and wait.
About 5 minutes later, the screaming starts. In between shrieks, WLF and his buddies can hear the crabs freaking out and scurrying around everywhere in packs, from one side of the room to the other. Soon they can tell all the girls are up, screaming bloody murder. The crabs are making even more noise than before, sliding all over the slick, hardwood floors. Someone switched on the lights, and then they really started screaming.
Meanwhile, WLF and his friends are laughing their asses off.
That is, until they hear the police sirens. One of the girls had called the cops.
WLF and his buddies start to run away. But WLF trips and falls. The cops are right up on them at this point, his friends are long gone, and WLF knew he had to think fast if he was going to avoid trouble. A pickup truck was parked down the street. WLF opened the door (unbelievably, it was unlocked) and quickly laid down on the seat as though he were sleeping.
Not even 15 seconds later, a cop raps at the window, looking for answers.
"Oh, no, officer. I have no idea what you're talking about. I've been asleep the whole time, here in my truck. I didn't see anything," he said drowsily.
"Hmph. Ok, well, thanks anyway," the cop said suspiciously.
My dad could never believe he didn't get busted on that one. But he was pretty proud of himself at the same time for his quick thinking. He never could tell that story without laughing so hard, he had tears running down his face.
By the way, this is only one of many stories involving my father and practical jokes. You could say it was a hobby of his.
I could tell you about having to sit next to a guy from Romania who had B.O.
Or I could tell you about seeing a great local band the other night (Villanova).
I could tell you that I saw Hoochie McSkankerton (aka Wednesday Skank) sucking face with Hot Neighbor this weekend. In his driveway. In daylight. In front of his kids. (Is it just me, or is 2 months kind of soon to be making out in front of the kiddies???)
I could tell you that Shrek the Third was decent. But perhaps you should wait for the DVD.
I could tell you that the portrayal of librarians in Party Girl and Tomcats were....interesting. And although not great movies, they did have their funny moments. Librarians are very wild girls, according to Hollywood. Woot!
I could mention that I am officially up to running 3 miles now. With a small break in-between miles 2 and 3. Go me.
Or I could tell you that I left my doggie bag behind at a restaurant this weekend and I was SO MAD, because I always do that. Which sucks even more when you are broke and were hoping to have the leftovers for dinner tonight. GAH I am still pissed at myself, just thinking about it.
I could tell you how my brother Fungus got to eat dinner with this guy recently. No, I am not kidding. A friend of the family got an extra ticket to a gala dinner where he spoke, and he gave the ticket to Fungus. So I'm sure he didn't get to meet him, just share a meal with him. Kinda. Neat, huh?
I could tell you about hanging out with all my girls this weeekend: Friday's dinner with the Happy Hour Peeps. Saturday's BBQ lunch w/MJ & KT (and MJ's brother & sis-in-law) and Sunday's dinner at a Chinese/Japanese/Sushi restaurant with the Nurses and Healthy Girl. But it was just good times, not much to report.
Really, I pretty much just summed everything up for you. This leaves me with a problem: what should I post today? Hmmm...sounds like it's time for a story! WOOT!
Have I told you about the time WLF went to the beach? No? Ok, this is a good one.
At some point in his youth, I think when he was in college, WLF (aka My Dad) went to the beach with his buddies one summer. (So this is probably somewhere in Virginia or Maryland, in the 1950s, for those of you who want a setting.)
They were there for about a week. Aside from getting up one morning (to find they were out of milk) and putting beer on his breakfast cereal --- EWWWWW --- he just had a good time partying it up on the surf and sand.
But one night was unforgettable.....
Apparently, there was some all-girl's school at this beach-front town. WLF and his buddies found out where the girls' dormitory was. It was directly across the street from the beach. Enjoying the wonderful beach breezes, the girls kept their windows open at night as they slept.
Big. Mistake.
You see, nighttime is when the crabs come out. Hundreds of little crabs, all over the beach. And you really don't want to combine that wonder of nature with a group of college-aged young men who are on vacation with not much to do. Besides drink beer.
See where this is going? Yeah.
So WLF and his buddies grab buckets and start collecting crabs. Tons of them. They completely fill the buckets with live crabs. They wait until the lights in the dormitory had been out for about a half hour. Then they climb up the fire escape to the 2nd floor, walk over to the open window...........and begin to dump the buckets. Hundreds of crabs scurry all over the hardwood floors, making for a very creepy cacophony of little crustacean legs. But the sleeping women do not notice.
At first.
Giggling, WLF and his buddies ran back down the fire escape to sit on the curb across the street from the dormitory. They each pop a can of beer......and wait.
About 5 minutes later, the screaming starts. In between shrieks, WLF and his buddies can hear the crabs freaking out and scurrying around everywhere in packs, from one side of the room to the other. Soon they can tell all the girls are up, screaming bloody murder. The crabs are making even more noise than before, sliding all over the slick, hardwood floors. Someone switched on the lights, and then they really started screaming.
Meanwhile, WLF and his friends are laughing their asses off.
That is, until they hear the police sirens. One of the girls had called the cops.
WLF and his buddies start to run away. But WLF trips and falls. The cops are right up on them at this point, his friends are long gone, and WLF knew he had to think fast if he was going to avoid trouble. A pickup truck was parked down the street. WLF opened the door (unbelievably, it was unlocked) and quickly laid down on the seat as though he were sleeping.
Not even 15 seconds later, a cop raps at the window, looking for answers.
"Oh, no, officer. I have no idea what you're talking about. I've been asleep the whole time, here in my truck. I didn't see anything," he said drowsily.
"Hmph. Ok, well, thanks anyway," the cop said suspiciously.
My dad could never believe he didn't get busted on that one. But he was pretty proud of himself at the same time for his quick thinking. He never could tell that story without laughing so hard, he had tears running down his face.
By the way, this is only one of many stories involving my father and practical jokes. You could say it was a hobby of his.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Flashes in the Love Stinks Pan
Ugh, you know I hate it when I whine. Not only do I manage to annoy my readers, I annoy myself. To boot, it makes me feel guilty. I am a very lucky person, with much to be grateful for: health, money to pay my bills (um, hopefully...), my family is safe, my car is currently running, etc.
So this post promises to be 100% WHINE-FREE. *readers cheer and applaud*
Instead of whining about how much love stinks, I'm going to list anecdotes from those moments in my dating history when something GOOD actually happened. (Single guys, you might want to take notes.)
This might take me a while. Let's see....it can't all be bad....right?
One summer in high school, I briefly dated this guy, who, despite my raging acne and teenage insecurities, thought the sun rose and set on me. (At the time and to this day, I have no idea what he was thinking. Seriously.) I would love to say that I appreciated him for seeing such wonderful things when he looked at me, but he ended up being a horrible kisser, so it didn't last long. Also, his main hobby was dropping acid in first period, which really wasn't my scene. If I remember correctly, the vast majority of my attraction to him was due to the fact that he worked at Steak n Shake and he would give me free milkshakes when I came in. Also, he had a fantastic collection of rave/techno CDs which he'd let me borrow. Gosh, I had such high standards then...but, he does stick out in my memory because of a wonderful evening. He called me one afternoon and asked me if he could pick me up at 8pm. "Sure," I replied. "What are we doing? And wait...you don't have a car."
"Don't worry, it's a surprise," he said.
My parents said it would be ok, although they didn't like him very much (he had a few too many piercings for their taste). As I started to get ready (for what, I had no idea), I realized with horror that I was breaking out in hives all over my body. (To this day, I have no idea what caused it, nor have I had hives since). In order to avoid looking like a freak, I was forced to wear jeans and a long-sleeved top to hide my itchy, red bumps. Keep in mind this is in the middle of summer, so this outfit was very out-of-season and was making me sweat buckets. Wow, sexy.
8 o'clock rolls around, and he picks me up in his friend's car: a brand-new white sports car. He had somehow gotten off of work early and talked his coworker into letting him borrow the car.
I was already impressed. And we hadn't even gone anywhere yet.
We got in the car and headed towards downtown Indianapolis. (Remember, I went to high school/college in Indiana). He refused to tell me where we were going. Once we got to the heart of downtown, he parked the car. We got out, and he grabbed my hand. "Come on!" he said excitedly.
We walked into the ground floor of one of the skyscrapers and got into the elevator. I was curious when he hit the button for the top floor. I had no idea what was going on.
The elevator doors opened, and we stood at the entrance to The Eagle's Nest. It had just opened, and I had only heard about it: the rotating restaurant on the top floor of a hotel. (You can see a pic of the view if you click on the link). We got a table by a window and ate dessert as we watched the sun set over the downtown skyline.
Now, I'm not one for romantic gestures, as the vast majority of them make me throw up a little in my mouth, but this was pretty good, I gotta say. Anytime a guy puts forth effort like that, I'm always impressed. Considering I can still remember every detail of it over ten years later, I'd say this was one of the best dates of all time. Even though he ended up locking the keys in the car and we had to wait for a locksmith to open it. Which was pretty funny, actually.
I dated a guy my sophomore year of college. He's a great guy, and we are actually still in touch. We just have nothing in common. He is a rock climber. I am not. So that pretty much sums up why things never worked out between us. After finding myself on the side of a mountain in Kentucky one weekend, I remember thinking, "Ok, I just don't know about this."
*Readers who know me in real life are staring at their computer screens right now, jaws in their laps. "VB? On a mountain??? Willingly??"*
But the reason I will never forget him, even if we lose touch, is this: he would write me love letters. Good ones. So good, in fact, that I have kept every single one of them. (Maybe I should tell him?) To date, he's one of only two guys who ever wrote me love letters. Since he lived in Indianapolis and I was away at school in Bloomington, we had a long-distance relationship. So phone calls and letters were really how we spent time together between 2ce monthly visits.
The letters were never too corny or sappy. Just very sweet, thoughtful and honest. At the time, I remember being amazed at how open he was about how he felt. Come to think of it, I still am. But one letter in particular stood above the rest. It was a card. The front was blank, except for a little red heart. The inside had something short and cute printed in the middle of the facing page. But I can't remember what the little printed greeting was. That's not why I kept the card.
I kept the card because in every possible space, crammed in teeny-tiny writing, over and over and over, it said, "I miss you." It must have taken him forever, and I would say he wrote it at least 100 times, all over the inside of the card. My eyes welled up with tears instantly. Every time I take the card out to look at it, my eyes well up again. And sitting here, typing this story, my eyes are welling up just thinking about it. I'm sure he had no idea at the time how much that card would impact me or how much I would treasure it. Whenever I think about it, to this day, it puts a smile on my face to know that at one time, someone felt that way about me.
Again, it's the effort that gets me when it comes to falling for men.
*VB leaves to go find kleenex.*
Ok, deep breaths. I'm better now. Gosh, maybe I am a little sentimental, now that I think about it. I have always said I'm not much on bubble baths and champagne, but maybe I am. I have always thought of myself as liking the same kind of romance as The Czarina: the very unromantic kind. "Fall for the guy who jumps your car," she has always told me. (Apparently, WLF scored major points with her by jumping her car one day. I gotta say, that would also score major points with me.)
There is something to be said for a guy who goes out of his way to make your life easier, even if it doesn't involve roses or chocolates. A reliable man whom you can count on is most definitely a keeper.
Which leads me to my final anecdote. While this isn't as grand a gesture as what the high school boyfriend did, and it doesn't bring tears to my eyes like the card from the college boyfriend, this gesture I'm about to share made me just as happy.
Right out of college, when I was living in Fayetteville, NC and teaching school, I dated a string of army guys. (Ft. Bragg is in Fayetteville, and so men in that town outnumber women by about 8 to 1. It was a fun year, let me tell ya. I always tell people that Fayetteville is like Disneyworld for Single Girls). Anyway. The first guy I dated was named Dan.
Soon after we started dating, Dan was getting out of the army and moving home to Oregon. Because he was in the process of getting out, he had some time off, and since he was technically no longer in the army, he needed a place to stay for about a week before his flight left to Oregon. I told him he could stay with me.
Meanwhile, I was working 12 hour days as a first year teacher. One day, I whined to him about how filthy my apartment was and how I had no time or energy to clean it. "I'm cleaning it tonight when I get home. I can't take it anymore," I said. Then I went to work.
By the time I got home that night, he had cleaned my entire apartment. Everything. He even put the clean dishes away and picked up all my clothes. He even dusted. The whole place was spic and span and smelled fresh and clean. When I realized what he had done, I began to literally squeal with delight. "Yeah, guess what I did all day?" he said, a big grin on his face. I literally jumped into his arms, showering him with kisses and then proceeded to make him dinner.
A few days later, he moved back to Oregon. He wanted to keep in touch, but I really didn't see the point. We didn't have all that much in common and we hadn't been dating very long. But he was a really sweet guy. I'm sure he's making some girl in Oregon very happy now.
Well, those are the three that stick out in my mind the most. I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of them right now. In a way, it's experiences like these that keep me going, that keep me hopeful about dating. Someone did nice things for me once, and someone will do them again. Although the relationships never worked out with these guys, I am grateful to them for showing me how there are good guys out there and that I am worth a little extra effort.
So this post promises to be 100% WHINE-FREE. *readers cheer and applaud*
Instead of whining about how much love stinks, I'm going to list anecdotes from those moments in my dating history when something GOOD actually happened. (Single guys, you might want to take notes.)
This might take me a while. Let's see....it can't all be bad....right?
One summer in high school, I briefly dated this guy, who, despite my raging acne and teenage insecurities, thought the sun rose and set on me. (At the time and to this day, I have no idea what he was thinking. Seriously.) I would love to say that I appreciated him for seeing such wonderful things when he looked at me, but he ended up being a horrible kisser, so it didn't last long. Also, his main hobby was dropping acid in first period, which really wasn't my scene. If I remember correctly, the vast majority of my attraction to him was due to the fact that he worked at Steak n Shake and he would give me free milkshakes when I came in. Also, he had a fantastic collection of rave/techno CDs which he'd let me borrow. Gosh, I had such high standards then...but, he does stick out in my memory because of a wonderful evening. He called me one afternoon and asked me if he could pick me up at 8pm. "Sure," I replied. "What are we doing? And wait...you don't have a car."
"Don't worry, it's a surprise," he said.
My parents said it would be ok, although they didn't like him very much (he had a few too many piercings for their taste). As I started to get ready (for what, I had no idea), I realized with horror that I was breaking out in hives all over my body. (To this day, I have no idea what caused it, nor have I had hives since). In order to avoid looking like a freak, I was forced to wear jeans and a long-sleeved top to hide my itchy, red bumps. Keep in mind this is in the middle of summer, so this outfit was very out-of-season and was making me sweat buckets. Wow, sexy.
8 o'clock rolls around, and he picks me up in his friend's car: a brand-new white sports car. He had somehow gotten off of work early and talked his coworker into letting him borrow the car.
I was already impressed. And we hadn't even gone anywhere yet.
We got in the car and headed towards downtown Indianapolis. (Remember, I went to high school/college in Indiana). He refused to tell me where we were going. Once we got to the heart of downtown, he parked the car. We got out, and he grabbed my hand. "Come on!" he said excitedly.
We walked into the ground floor of one of the skyscrapers and got into the elevator. I was curious when he hit the button for the top floor. I had no idea what was going on.
The elevator doors opened, and we stood at the entrance to The Eagle's Nest. It had just opened, and I had only heard about it: the rotating restaurant on the top floor of a hotel. (You can see a pic of the view if you click on the link). We got a table by a window and ate dessert as we watched the sun set over the downtown skyline.
Now, I'm not one for romantic gestures, as the vast majority of them make me throw up a little in my mouth, but this was pretty good, I gotta say. Anytime a guy puts forth effort like that, I'm always impressed. Considering I can still remember every detail of it over ten years later, I'd say this was one of the best dates of all time. Even though he ended up locking the keys in the car and we had to wait for a locksmith to open it. Which was pretty funny, actually.
I dated a guy my sophomore year of college. He's a great guy, and we are actually still in touch. We just have nothing in common. He is a rock climber. I am not. So that pretty much sums up why things never worked out between us. After finding myself on the side of a mountain in Kentucky one weekend, I remember thinking, "Ok, I just don't know about this."
*Readers who know me in real life are staring at their computer screens right now, jaws in their laps. "VB? On a mountain??? Willingly??"*
But the reason I will never forget him, even if we lose touch, is this: he would write me love letters. Good ones. So good, in fact, that I have kept every single one of them. (Maybe I should tell him?) To date, he's one of only two guys who ever wrote me love letters. Since he lived in Indianapolis and I was away at school in Bloomington, we had a long-distance relationship. So phone calls and letters were really how we spent time together between 2ce monthly visits.
The letters were never too corny or sappy. Just very sweet, thoughtful and honest. At the time, I remember being amazed at how open he was about how he felt. Come to think of it, I still am. But one letter in particular stood above the rest. It was a card. The front was blank, except for a little red heart. The inside had something short and cute printed in the middle of the facing page. But I can't remember what the little printed greeting was. That's not why I kept the card.
I kept the card because in every possible space, crammed in teeny-tiny writing, over and over and over, it said, "I miss you." It must have taken him forever, and I would say he wrote it at least 100 times, all over the inside of the card. My eyes welled up with tears instantly. Every time I take the card out to look at it, my eyes well up again. And sitting here, typing this story, my eyes are welling up just thinking about it. I'm sure he had no idea at the time how much that card would impact me or how much I would treasure it. Whenever I think about it, to this day, it puts a smile on my face to know that at one time, someone felt that way about me.
Again, it's the effort that gets me when it comes to falling for men.
*VB leaves to go find kleenex.*
Ok, deep breaths. I'm better now. Gosh, maybe I am a little sentimental, now that I think about it. I have always said I'm not much on bubble baths and champagne, but maybe I am. I have always thought of myself as liking the same kind of romance as The Czarina: the very unromantic kind. "Fall for the guy who jumps your car," she has always told me. (Apparently, WLF scored major points with her by jumping her car one day. I gotta say, that would also score major points with me.)
There is something to be said for a guy who goes out of his way to make your life easier, even if it doesn't involve roses or chocolates. A reliable man whom you can count on is most definitely a keeper.
Which leads me to my final anecdote. While this isn't as grand a gesture as what the high school boyfriend did, and it doesn't bring tears to my eyes like the card from the college boyfriend, this gesture I'm about to share made me just as happy.
Right out of college, when I was living in Fayetteville, NC and teaching school, I dated a string of army guys. (Ft. Bragg is in Fayetteville, and so men in that town outnumber women by about 8 to 1. It was a fun year, let me tell ya. I always tell people that Fayetteville is like Disneyworld for Single Girls). Anyway. The first guy I dated was named Dan.
Soon after we started dating, Dan was getting out of the army and moving home to Oregon. Because he was in the process of getting out, he had some time off, and since he was technically no longer in the army, he needed a place to stay for about a week before his flight left to Oregon. I told him he could stay with me.
Meanwhile, I was working 12 hour days as a first year teacher. One day, I whined to him about how filthy my apartment was and how I had no time or energy to clean it. "I'm cleaning it tonight when I get home. I can't take it anymore," I said. Then I went to work.
By the time I got home that night, he had cleaned my entire apartment. Everything. He even put the clean dishes away and picked up all my clothes. He even dusted. The whole place was spic and span and smelled fresh and clean. When I realized what he had done, I began to literally squeal with delight. "Yeah, guess what I did all day?" he said, a big grin on his face. I literally jumped into his arms, showering him with kisses and then proceeded to make him dinner.
A few days later, he moved back to Oregon. He wanted to keep in touch, but I really didn't see the point. We didn't have all that much in common and we hadn't been dating very long. But he was a really sweet guy. I'm sure he's making some girl in Oregon very happy now.
Well, those are the three that stick out in my mind the most. I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of them right now. In a way, it's experiences like these that keep me going, that keep me hopeful about dating. Someone did nice things for me once, and someone will do them again. Although the relationships never worked out with these guys, I am grateful to them for showing me how there are good guys out there and that I am worth a little extra effort.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Reunions
I am blogging from home. I don't feel well, so I left work early today. I think I'm getting a cold, thanks to the rapidly fluctuating weather (50 degrees one day, 85 the next) lately and the buckets of pollen coating everything here in a Chee-to-like dust. Throw in some stress in my personal life, and you have the perfect cocktail for an instant, sicky feeling. Blech.
In between coughs, I have been napping all day, so now I'm wired. Hacking up a lung and wired. Thank God for Hall's Fruit Breezers cough drops, though. Have y'all tried these things? They ROCK if your throat is scratchy and irritated. Mmmm...and they taste good. Not all menthol-y like the other ones.
Before you stop reading this ultra-boring post, I do have one thing to ask my readers. I recently found out that although this year is the 10th anniversary of my high school graduation, there are NO plans in the works for our reunion. I am kind of miffed, as I probably would have gone. But at the same time, part of me isn't even interested in going. Makes no sense, I know. There is a rumor that a small group of people are scrambling around, throwing together a far less formal get-together for this summer. So hopefully that will happen....?
My question to you is, are these things even fun? Did you go to yours? Was it lame? You think I should go if/when it happens? Please tell me your experiences in the high school reunion department. And keep in mind that my high school was basically like "Beverly Hills 90210". No exaggeration. So I don't know if going would leave me filled with envy or total annoyance. Or maybe they've all become human by this point. Who knows.
Ok, story time. This also has to do with reunions. (See, who says I bounce around topics in my posts? There are over-arching themes, people!)
The first time I heard this story, I cried. So go get your kleenex, ladies. I'll wait.
Yes, I know, it's sad, yadda yadda, but it's a good story. This is probably the saddest story I've ever heard in my whole life, btw. Except for maybe Old Yeller. Sad dog stories always trump sad people stories, in my book.
Alright, are you sufficiently mentally prepared? Good.
Time: 1945
Place: Kansas City, MO
My Grandma Virginia (yes, I am named after her) was dating this guy before WWII broke out. (I think his name was Charlie?? Carl? Something with a C.) They were crazy about each other and had planned on getting married. The two families were very excited about this, as Virginia and Charlie had grown up together and the families were very close.
Then WWII happened. Charlie had to go to Europe. They decided to wait and get married until after the war. He gave her this gorgeous locket to remember him by, complete with his picture on the inside. It is a large, gold heart-shaped locket, with a mother-of-pearl cover and a delicate chain. He even got the back engraved with "From Charlie to Virginia with Love" and the date. (We still have it.) Then he left.
She was sad, but kept herself busy. One day, she stopped getting letters. Then she heard through the grapevine that he was missing in action, presumed dead. She was devastated.
So, to try and move on with her life, Virginia got a job. She moved away from home and all the bad memories in Kansas City and went out to the Seattle area and worked at the big Boeing plant there, where they were building all the planes for the war. She was a secretary at the headquarters office. One morning, she was working as usual, busy at her desk, when a very tall, thin man with blue eyes walked up to her desk, leaned over and said, "How 'bout a cup of coffee, babe?"
Virginia looked up. "I'm John S. I'm a reporter and I'm here to interview your boss. Now how 'bout that coffee?"
She smiled and got the coffee. She didn't realize it yet, but she had just met my grandfather. They were married about a year later, in January of 1945.
After the wedding, they packed up and headed to New Orleans for their honeymoon. That night, back in Kansas City, Virginia's mother got a phone call.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Hello, is Virginia there?" a male voice inquired.
"No, I'm sorry, she's on her honeymoon," my great-grandmother explained.
*long silence*
"Oh......alright. Sorry to bother you. Thanks," he said. Then he hung up.
My great-grandmother hung up the phone and turned to Virginia's sister, who was sitting at the table next to her. "Oh my God. I swear to God that was Charlie. He must have come home from the war. He's not dead. I know that voice," she said.
They decided never to tell Virginia that Charlie wasn't dead. They never did tell her. The only reason I know the story is because my Grandma Virginia's sister told Czarina one day after my grandma died.
Grandma never got rid of the locket. She kept it hidden in the back of her jewelry drawer and would take it out on occasion and look at it. My grandpa was always jealous of Charlie, and it would have upset him to know she kept it all those years.
I wonder what happened to Charlie, though. I'm sure he got married to someone else and led a wonderful life. But this is still the saddest story ever!
In between coughs, I have been napping all day, so now I'm wired. Hacking up a lung and wired. Thank God for Hall's Fruit Breezers cough drops, though. Have y'all tried these things? They ROCK if your throat is scratchy and irritated. Mmmm...and they taste good. Not all menthol-y like the other ones.
Before you stop reading this ultra-boring post, I do have one thing to ask my readers. I recently found out that although this year is the 10th anniversary of my high school graduation, there are NO plans in the works for our reunion. I am kind of miffed, as I probably would have gone. But at the same time, part of me isn't even interested in going. Makes no sense, I know. There is a rumor that a small group of people are scrambling around, throwing together a far less formal get-together for this summer. So hopefully that will happen....?
My question to you is, are these things even fun? Did you go to yours? Was it lame? You think I should go if/when it happens? Please tell me your experiences in the high school reunion department. And keep in mind that my high school was basically like "Beverly Hills 90210". No exaggeration. So I don't know if going would leave me filled with envy or total annoyance. Or maybe they've all become human by this point. Who knows.
Ok, story time. This also has to do with reunions. (See, who says I bounce around topics in my posts? There are over-arching themes, people!)
The first time I heard this story, I cried. So go get your kleenex, ladies. I'll wait.
Yes, I know, it's sad, yadda yadda, but it's a good story. This is probably the saddest story I've ever heard in my whole life, btw. Except for maybe Old Yeller. Sad dog stories always trump sad people stories, in my book.
Alright, are you sufficiently mentally prepared? Good.
Time: 1945
Place: Kansas City, MO
My Grandma Virginia (yes, I am named after her) was dating this guy before WWII broke out. (I think his name was Charlie?? Carl? Something with a C.) They were crazy about each other and had planned on getting married. The two families were very excited about this, as Virginia and Charlie had grown up together and the families were very close.
Then WWII happened. Charlie had to go to Europe. They decided to wait and get married until after the war. He gave her this gorgeous locket to remember him by, complete with his picture on the inside. It is a large, gold heart-shaped locket, with a mother-of-pearl cover and a delicate chain. He even got the back engraved with "From Charlie to Virginia with Love" and the date. (We still have it.) Then he left.
She was sad, but kept herself busy. One day, she stopped getting letters. Then she heard through the grapevine that he was missing in action, presumed dead. She was devastated.
So, to try and move on with her life, Virginia got a job. She moved away from home and all the bad memories in Kansas City and went out to the Seattle area and worked at the big Boeing plant there, where they were building all the planes for the war. She was a secretary at the headquarters office. One morning, she was working as usual, busy at her desk, when a very tall, thin man with blue eyes walked up to her desk, leaned over and said, "How 'bout a cup of coffee, babe?"
Virginia looked up. "I'm John S. I'm a reporter and I'm here to interview your boss. Now how 'bout that coffee?"
She smiled and got the coffee. She didn't realize it yet, but she had just met my grandfather. They were married about a year later, in January of 1945.
After the wedding, they packed up and headed to New Orleans for their honeymoon. That night, back in Kansas City, Virginia's mother got a phone call.
"Hello?" she answered.
"Hello, is Virginia there?" a male voice inquired.
"No, I'm sorry, she's on her honeymoon," my great-grandmother explained.
*long silence*
"Oh......alright. Sorry to bother you. Thanks," he said. Then he hung up.
My great-grandmother hung up the phone and turned to Virginia's sister, who was sitting at the table next to her. "Oh my God. I swear to God that was Charlie. He must have come home from the war. He's not dead. I know that voice," she said.
They decided never to tell Virginia that Charlie wasn't dead. They never did tell her. The only reason I know the story is because my Grandma Virginia's sister told Czarina one day after my grandma died.
Grandma never got rid of the locket. She kept it hidden in the back of her jewelry drawer and would take it out on occasion and look at it. My grandpa was always jealous of Charlie, and it would have upset him to know she kept it all those years.
I wonder what happened to Charlie, though. I'm sure he got married to someone else and led a wonderful life. But this is still the saddest story ever!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Kleenex, Cough Drops and College Stories
Ick. I feel mostly better. Just have snotty nose and dry throat/cough. Mmm. Pretty. So I am currently getting by at work, thanks to facial tissue and the wonders of Honey-Lemon Halls. I'm out of these, which are actually the best cough drops ever in the history of mankind. They taste like candy. Wish I had some....
I am really, really sore. On Monday, after skipping a week of weight-lifting classes, I thought I'd be a badass and go up in my weights. At the time, I was on this big adrenaline kick. The kind where you feel very euphoric. So I was really getting into my workout and decided to push myself. It worked. Everything hurts.
In case you ever wonder why I never seem to reply to your comments, it's because I read them in my email, and then I forget to reply to them in my blog. But I read and love each and every one of them.
I replied to everyone's comments in the 2 previous posts. So scroll on down to read 'em. Sorry I'm such a space cadet, peeps. I am blonde, remember.
So I think I ran over a nail or something yesterday. Yeah, because I don't have enough car problems. My "check tire pressure" light came on right after I heard a funny noise under my front tire while driving. The last time it came on, I had a nail in my tire. So far, no flat, but I need to get it looked at. Awesome. I love my stupid car.
Seriously, I am thisclose to saying "F--k It!" and going to CarMax this weekend and just buying something. Anything. Just get me away from this pain-in-my-ass car. I'm so sick of it. I need new brakes, a new thermostat thingie, the seat warmers don't work, my CD player is starting to act up, I probably need a tire patch, a new key reader, an oil change....ugh. I hate dealing with cars. That would be one of the coolest things about being rich--I would never have to worry about car problems again. Someone else (or my bank account) would handle it for me. *sigh*
Ok, before this turns into the most. boring. post. ever. I will share some more college stories with you. I told Charming about them the other day and she got a kick out of them. So here goes. Another story about College VB.
Time: Spring, 1998
Place: Bloomington, IN
I am in a car with three pledge sisters: Liz, Eileen and Valerie. We are freshmen, looking to buy some beer to drink in a dorm room (probably mine, because I didn't have a roommate). Liz is driving. She's the only one with a fake ID. So we go to a grocery store and she goes in alone to get the beer. She comes back with the beer....and four cute guys. They were seniors living off-campus. They were having a party at their house, and we were the guests. This was apparently decided in the beer aisle of the grocery store while we waited in the car.
So the 8 of us proceed to get trashed. I ended up somehow (Gosh, how did I get in here??) in one of the cute guys' bedrooms. I fell asleep after hooking up with him*. I figured everyone else went home.
So did Liz.
So did Eileen.
So did Valerie.
We all woke up in the morning, surprised to find our girlfriends still there. We had each hooked up with a different guy. So it ended up working out really well! We laughed about that night for the rest of college.
Gosh, I miss those carefree days of making out with total strangers....*sigh*
Ok, next story.
Time: Sometime during my sophomore year...
Place: Bloomington, IN at the ATO fraternity house
My sorority lived at that house, I swear. We were there almost every weekend. At this particular party, I was downstairs in the basement partying. I started making out with a cute guy who wasn't in the house, but was visiting a friend of his who was a member.
We ended up going upstairs to a room for more...uh, privacy. Aside from someone accidentally walking in on us mid-hookup, we had a good time*. I went back down to the party.
I had to pee, so I went to the ladies' room. While in there, I started talking to this really nice girl. She told me she was visiting from out of town and was at the party with her boyfriend. "Wanna meet him?" she asked. "Sure!" I said. (See where this is going? Yeah, how dumb am I?)
We walk out of the bathroom, and she proceeds to make a beeline for the guy I had just hooked up with upstairs. She introduced us, and I mumbled something and got the hell outta there! If I remember correctly, he had a very smug look on his face. What a jerk. I was mortified.
College VB was a fun girl. I miss her. Maybe I should bring her back....?
* And no, I didn't, in case you are wondering, Noseypants. I had a good time, but I'm not that kinda girl.
I am really, really sore. On Monday, after skipping a week of weight-lifting classes, I thought I'd be a badass and go up in my weights. At the time, I was on this big adrenaline kick. The kind where you feel very euphoric. So I was really getting into my workout and decided to push myself. It worked. Everything hurts.
In case you ever wonder why I never seem to reply to your comments, it's because I read them in my email, and then I forget to reply to them in my blog. But I read and love each and every one of them.
I replied to everyone's comments in the 2 previous posts. So scroll on down to read 'em. Sorry I'm such a space cadet, peeps. I am blonde, remember.
So I think I ran over a nail or something yesterday. Yeah, because I don't have enough car problems. My "check tire pressure" light came on right after I heard a funny noise under my front tire while driving. The last time it came on, I had a nail in my tire. So far, no flat, but I need to get it looked at. Awesome. I love my stupid car.
Seriously, I am thisclose to saying "F--k It!" and going to CarMax this weekend and just buying something. Anything. Just get me away from this pain-in-my-ass car. I'm so sick of it. I need new brakes, a new thermostat thingie, the seat warmers don't work, my CD player is starting to act up, I probably need a tire patch, a new key reader, an oil change....ugh. I hate dealing with cars. That would be one of the coolest things about being rich--I would never have to worry about car problems again. Someone else (or my bank account) would handle it for me. *sigh*
Ok, before this turns into the most. boring. post. ever. I will share some more college stories with you. I told Charming about them the other day and she got a kick out of them. So here goes. Another story about College VB.
Time: Spring, 1998
Place: Bloomington, IN
I am in a car with three pledge sisters: Liz, Eileen and Valerie. We are freshmen, looking to buy some beer to drink in a dorm room (probably mine, because I didn't have a roommate). Liz is driving. She's the only one with a fake ID. So we go to a grocery store and she goes in alone to get the beer. She comes back with the beer....and four cute guys. They were seniors living off-campus. They were having a party at their house, and we were the guests. This was apparently decided in the beer aisle of the grocery store while we waited in the car.
So the 8 of us proceed to get trashed. I ended up somehow (Gosh, how did I get in here??) in one of the cute guys' bedrooms. I fell asleep after hooking up with him*. I figured everyone else went home.
So did Liz.
So did Eileen.
So did Valerie.
We all woke up in the morning, surprised to find our girlfriends still there. We had each hooked up with a different guy. So it ended up working out really well! We laughed about that night for the rest of college.
Gosh, I miss those carefree days of making out with total strangers....*sigh*
Ok, next story.
Time: Sometime during my sophomore year...
Place: Bloomington, IN at the ATO fraternity house
My sorority lived at that house, I swear. We were there almost every weekend. At this particular party, I was downstairs in the basement partying. I started making out with a cute guy who wasn't in the house, but was visiting a friend of his who was a member.
We ended up going upstairs to a room for more...uh, privacy. Aside from someone accidentally walking in on us mid-hookup, we had a good time*. I went back down to the party.
I had to pee, so I went to the ladies' room. While in there, I started talking to this really nice girl. She told me she was visiting from out of town and was at the party with her boyfriend. "Wanna meet him?" she asked. "Sure!" I said. (See where this is going? Yeah, how dumb am I?)
We walk out of the bathroom, and she proceeds to make a beeline for the guy I had just hooked up with upstairs. She introduced us, and I mumbled something and got the hell outta there! If I remember correctly, he had a very smug look on his face. What a jerk. I was mortified.
College VB was a fun girl. I miss her. Maybe I should bring her back....?
* And no, I didn't, in case you are wondering, Noseypants. I had a good time, but I'm not that kinda girl.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Happy Violentine's Day!
Before I begin, let me give you two quick updates:
1. I am in the process of retrospectively labeling all my posts--all the way back to day 1. So if you need to read the whole backstory on my freakishly long toes or why I am going to Hell, you can do so. What did you say? Something about anal retentiveness? What do you mean?
2. I have lost 9 pounds. Woot! Woot! Go me. I am diet queen. I can now fit into 2 pairs of pants which I could not wear in December.
Now, as I was saying...
I've managed to get out some of my pent-up rage in the past couple of days. Thanks to an elliptical machine, Lily Allen, empathetic girlfriends and of course--Camels.
But I've still got some reserve anger to use up tonight, when I get together with MJ, KT and E to do some serious bitching and man-bashing. That should do me for a while, and then it will be back to your regularly scheduled programming here on VB.
Until then, I will share some Violentine's Day related stories.
Story #1
My coworker told me about her friend's current family scandal. It turns out that this woman's grandparents have been married for 51 years. They are in their seventies. [insert "Awww!" here.] So Grandma goes to her high school reunion (why you'd still go to your high school reunion at that age, I don't know). While she's there, she runs into her high school sweetheart. His wife had recently passed away. So afterwards, she goes home and announces to her husband of 51 years that she is leaving him for her high school sweetheart. Then she started packing up all her stuff! She just moved in with her high school sweetheart. Unbelievable, huh? The lady said her family is wigging out over this. Understandably.
Story #2
I wish I could give you a link to this somehow, but since it happened about 20 minutes ago, it's probably not on the Internet yet. My other coworker was listening to a popular morning radio show as she sat at her desk. She overheard this:
DJ: Ok, the 10th caller gets a prize!
10th caller: Hey! Cool! What did I win?
DJ: A dozen red roses!
10th Caller: That's great! I haven't gotten anything for my girlfriend, Kelly, for Valentine's Day.
DJ: Well, that works out perfectly. What's your name? Where do you work?
10th Caller: Shawn Smith [my coworker couldn't remember his last name]. I work at Acme Construction Company [she couldn't remember the specific construction co. either, but it doesn't matter.]
*during the commercial break, the DJ answers the phone*
Lady: hey, did you just give a guy named Shawn Smith a dozen roses for Valentine's day? And he works at Acme Construction Co.?
DJ: Yeah! Are you his Valentine?
Lady: Yeah.
DJ: I think he's still on the line. Want me to put you through?
Lady: Yes, please.
*the DJ puts the two of them live on the radio*
Lady: So, who's Kelly?
10th Caller: She's just a friend! I swear!
Lady: Well, then can you explain to me why I found her earring in your truck?
DJ: Ma'am, are you his wife?
Lady: Yes! [the rest of what she says is bleeped out.]
DJ: [to 10th Caller] This is your wife? And so Kelly's your girlfriend?
10th Caller: Well...kinda.
[The wife starts cussing at him]
A couple minutes later, the DJ said all the phone lines were jammed from all the people calling in about it. I asked my coworker if it was a big set-up or a joke to play on the listeners. She said she didn't think so--the DJ sounded very shocked, and the woman was cussing up a storm. I'm hoping this will make it to the papers or the Internet, so I can post a link about it...this story is too funny. What an idiot!!
Story #3
This one's about me. When I was a senior in college, I dated this real asshole. (He was the guy with 3 balls, actually). By Valentine's Day, I was hip to his jive, and knew he was cheating on me.
So we are on the phone the day before V Day, and I asked him what I was getting for Valentine's Day. I wanted to see what he'd say. I knew he'd lay on the bullshit really thick. He didn't disappoint.
"Oh, well, I wanted to send you some flowers, and I called around to a bunch of florist shops, but I waited too long and they are all out of flowers. I'm sorry."
Readers, breathe deeply. Can you smell the bullshit?? I couldn't believe he actually expected me to belive that crap.
"Oh, that's ok, sweetie. I don't need flowers," I replied.
"I knew you'd understand. You're awesome," he said.
"I know. I'll talk to you later, ok?" I said.
"Ok, bye. I love you," he said.
"Uh-huh," I answered.
After getting off the phone, I immediately opened up my yellow pages. I turned to "Florist". I called the florist shop directly across the street from where he worked.
"Yes, hi, I'd like to have a dozen roses delivered tomorrow. You're not out, are you?" I asked.
"Oh, no. We've got tons. What color would you like?" says the florist.
"It really doesn't matter. Any color. You can mix them up if you want," I said.
"Oh...really?" she asked.
"Sure!" I said.
"Ok, well, I just need the name and address information from you."
I gave it to her. Along with my credit card number.
"One last thing," she said. "What do you want the card to say?"
"I guess you didn't call this florist shop. They have plenty. Asshole." I said.
I heard the florist stifle a giggle.
"*ahem* Really? I guess you didn't call this florist shop. They have plenty. Asshole. Is that right?"
"That's just perfect!" I said. "Thank you so much!"
To this day, it's the best $50 I've ever spent.
1. I am in the process of retrospectively labeling all my posts--all the way back to day 1. So if you need to read the whole backstory on my freakishly long toes or why I am going to Hell, you can do so. What did you say? Something about anal retentiveness? What do you mean?
2. I have lost 9 pounds. Woot! Woot! Go me. I am diet queen. I can now fit into 2 pairs of pants which I could not wear in December.
Now, as I was saying...
I've managed to get out some of my pent-up rage in the past couple of days. Thanks to an elliptical machine, Lily Allen, empathetic girlfriends and of course--Camels.
But I've still got some reserve anger to use up tonight, when I get together with MJ, KT and E to do some serious bitching and man-bashing. That should do me for a while, and then it will be back to your regularly scheduled programming here on VB.
Until then, I will share some Violentine's Day related stories.
Story #1
My coworker told me about her friend's current family scandal. It turns out that this woman's grandparents have been married for 51 years. They are in their seventies. [insert "Awww!" here.] So Grandma goes to her high school reunion (why you'd still go to your high school reunion at that age, I don't know). While she's there, she runs into her high school sweetheart. His wife had recently passed away. So afterwards, she goes home and announces to her husband of 51 years that she is leaving him for her high school sweetheart. Then she started packing up all her stuff! She just moved in with her high school sweetheart. Unbelievable, huh? The lady said her family is wigging out over this. Understandably.
Story #2
I wish I could give you a link to this somehow, but since it happened about 20 minutes ago, it's probably not on the Internet yet. My other coworker was listening to a popular morning radio show as she sat at her desk. She overheard this:
DJ: Ok, the 10th caller gets a prize!
10th caller: Hey! Cool! What did I win?
DJ: A dozen red roses!
10th Caller: That's great! I haven't gotten anything for my girlfriend, Kelly, for Valentine's Day.
DJ: Well, that works out perfectly. What's your name? Where do you work?
10th Caller: Shawn Smith [my coworker couldn't remember his last name]. I work at Acme Construction Company [she couldn't remember the specific construction co. either, but it doesn't matter.]
*during the commercial break, the DJ answers the phone*
Lady: hey, did you just give a guy named Shawn Smith a dozen roses for Valentine's day? And he works at Acme Construction Co.?
DJ: Yeah! Are you his Valentine?
Lady: Yeah.
DJ: I think he's still on the line. Want me to put you through?
Lady: Yes, please.
*the DJ puts the two of them live on the radio*
Lady: So, who's Kelly?
10th Caller: She's just a friend! I swear!
Lady: Well, then can you explain to me why I found her earring in your truck?
DJ: Ma'am, are you his wife?
Lady: Yes! [the rest of what she says is bleeped out.]
DJ: [to 10th Caller] This is your wife? And so Kelly's your girlfriend?
10th Caller: Well...kinda.
[The wife starts cussing at him]
A couple minutes later, the DJ said all the phone lines were jammed from all the people calling in about it. I asked my coworker if it was a big set-up or a joke to play on the listeners. She said she didn't think so--the DJ sounded very shocked, and the woman was cussing up a storm. I'm hoping this will make it to the papers or the Internet, so I can post a link about it...this story is too funny. What an idiot!!
Story #3
This one's about me. When I was a senior in college, I dated this real asshole. (He was the guy with 3 balls, actually). By Valentine's Day, I was hip to his jive, and knew he was cheating on me.
So we are on the phone the day before V Day, and I asked him what I was getting for Valentine's Day. I wanted to see what he'd say. I knew he'd lay on the bullshit really thick. He didn't disappoint.
"Oh, well, I wanted to send you some flowers, and I called around to a bunch of florist shops, but I waited too long and they are all out of flowers. I'm sorry."
Readers, breathe deeply. Can you smell the bullshit?? I couldn't believe he actually expected me to belive that crap.
"Oh, that's ok, sweetie. I don't need flowers," I replied.
"I knew you'd understand. You're awesome," he said.
"I know. I'll talk to you later, ok?" I said.
"Ok, bye. I love you," he said.
"Uh-huh," I answered.
After getting off the phone, I immediately opened up my yellow pages. I turned to "Florist". I called the florist shop directly across the street from where he worked.
"Yes, hi, I'd like to have a dozen roses delivered tomorrow. You're not out, are you?" I asked.
"Oh, no. We've got tons. What color would you like?" says the florist.
"It really doesn't matter. Any color. You can mix them up if you want," I said.
"Oh...really?" she asked.
"Sure!" I said.
"Ok, well, I just need the name and address information from you."
I gave it to her. Along with my credit card number.
"One last thing," she said. "What do you want the card to say?"
"I guess you didn't call this florist shop. They have plenty. Asshole." I said.
I heard the florist stifle a giggle.
"*ahem* Really? I guess you didn't call this florist shop. They have plenty. Asshole. Is that right?"
"That's just perfect!" I said. "Thank you so much!"
To this day, it's the best $50 I've ever spent.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
WLF & His In-Laws
Not much is going on right now, aside from the upcoming party at my house this weekend, and the fact that Lady Starfish is currently in town. (She and I are having a blast, by the way.)
So today, I thought of a random, small-world story to tell you about my dad, WLF.
Since The Czarina lost both her parents at age 21 and did not meet WLF until she was about 27 or 28, my dad always assumed he never met his in-laws.
Or did he?
When I was in middle school, my parents went into Richmond for the day. They returned home to tell me and my siblings a fairly incredible story. At some point in the day, they had some time to kill between errands. The Czarina decided to show WLF all the houses in Richmond where she lived when she was growing up. They pulled into this one neighborhood.
"Oh. I know this neighborhood!" WLF exclaimed.
"You do?" said Czarina.
"Yeah! One summer, when I was in college, I had a summer job as a Fuller Brush salesman. I went door-to-door, selling stuff to housewives. This was one of my neighborhoods," he explained.
"You know," replied Czarina, "my mom used to buy all kinds of stuff from the Fuller Brush man. Which summer was this?"
It turns out that the summer my dad spent as a door-to-door salesman was one of the summers that my mom lived in that neighborhood. They thought, "Hmm. That's interesting."
Then they turned the corner. "There it is!" said Czarina. "That's where I used to live!"
WLF said, "I remember selling stuff to that house. They were one of my best customers."
I wonder what they thought of my dad. I wonder what he thought of them. You never know who you meet sometimes, I guess. Little did they know...
Weird, huh?
So today, I thought of a random, small-world story to tell you about my dad, WLF.
Since The Czarina lost both her parents at age 21 and did not meet WLF until she was about 27 or 28, my dad always assumed he never met his in-laws.
Or did he?
When I was in middle school, my parents went into Richmond for the day. They returned home to tell me and my siblings a fairly incredible story. At some point in the day, they had some time to kill between errands. The Czarina decided to show WLF all the houses in Richmond where she lived when she was growing up. They pulled into this one neighborhood.
"Oh. I know this neighborhood!" WLF exclaimed.
"You do?" said Czarina.
"Yeah! One summer, when I was in college, I had a summer job as a Fuller Brush salesman. I went door-to-door, selling stuff to housewives. This was one of my neighborhoods," he explained.
"You know," replied Czarina, "my mom used to buy all kinds of stuff from the Fuller Brush man. Which summer was this?"
It turns out that the summer my dad spent as a door-to-door salesman was one of the summers that my mom lived in that neighborhood. They thought, "Hmm. That's interesting."
Then they turned the corner. "There it is!" said Czarina. "That's where I used to live!"
WLF said, "I remember selling stuff to that house. They were one of my best customers."
I wonder what they thought of my dad. I wonder what he thought of them. You never know who you meet sometimes, I guess. Little did they know...
Weird, huh?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
A Big Yawn
To the bloggers whose blogs I read: I have been trying to read your blogs this weekend, but my computer is on the floor right now, which makes reading and typing very uncomfortable. Lying on my stomach gives me a headache and leaning on my elbows to type gives me rug burn on my elbows. (Do you see the sacrifices I make? Now that is love, people!) I will hopefully be getting an actual desk sometime soon. Then I will be doing a lot more blog reading from home.
The good news is, this week will be dead at work, so I will be doing a LOT of reading! Yay! So for Anne, Sam, Mo, Ster, Stephanie, Sassafras, NML, Vixen and anyone else I've forgotten--coming soon to a blog near you: my comments!
Guess what I bought? This. Woo-hoo! Can't wait until it gets here for the holidays. And I got a good deal on it-- $180 + shipping. This means I will have WAY more pics on my blog, too.
I did absolutely nothing this weekend. Yeah, I am officially boring. I didn't go out, I didn't see anyone other than my dog and my roommate. How exciting. I guess that's the end of my blog, right? Kidding. I have lots more bitching and craziness to share.
I haven't even told you the story of The Time My Brother Was Green yet.
Or the story of My Valentine's Day Revenge.
Or My Smallest Small-World Moment Ever.
Or about the other ex who found me on myspace.
Or The Craziest College Night I Ever Had.
See? I have so much more to share.
Unfortunately, that day is not today. It's too hard to type like this. Sorry, folks.
Wait, let me back up. One thing happened this weekend. My roommate did call me at 2am Saturday night to ask me to come and pick her up. It seems she was out with some buddies and they decided to take the truck they were riding in and do doughnuts in the parking lot of a car dealership. Because that's what mature 25 year-olds (and 31 year-olds) do, right? I guess that when they did this one doughnut, they hit the curb and managed to blow out the tire. And the spare had some kind of a lock on it. The owner didn't have the key with him, so they couldn't put the spare on. So I got to pick him, his buddy and my roommate up at 2am. The guys crashed on our couch and figured out what to do in the morning.
I really didn't mind picking them up all that much, because they were so embarrassed that it was just funny by the time I got there. They were really proud of themselves this morning, let me tell ya! I will be able to tease them for weeks about this. Of course, they were pretty hung over as well.
Aside from that, I shopped all weekend for house stuff. You know how it is when you move--things that stored fine at the old place suddenly have nowhere to go at the new place, so you have to get organizationally creative. So I wasn't buying very fun things. I actually spent Saturday night putting together a bathroom storage cabinet.
Ok, I have to stop right here, because this is the most boring post I think I've ever written EVER. To make it more interesting, how about this:
Go ahead. Ask me anything. This is your chance to ask me whatever--that little thing that you've wondered about me. This is your chance to ask. Think of it as a big "thank you!" for reading my blog. Now you get to be nosy. I love it when other bloggers do this, so I know you do, too. Oh, and before you ask, no, I won't put up a pic of what I look like. You'll just have to imagine that I look like...Charlize Theron. Or something.
Note: I reserve the right to ignore sick, perverted or otherwise inappropriate questions. Especially if they come from anonymous readers. Questions from lurkers are especially welcome, as I have no idea what y'all are thinking because you never comment! (Which is fine, btw! I'm just curious...)
Can't think of a question? Here are some ideas to get you started. I have a huge, eccentric family. I love to travel. I am boy crazy. I dislike socks. I am obsessed with my dog--so much that I ordered some address return labels with his picture on them.( Oh yes, I am that girl.) I have bad taste in music. I work in a library. I fear crickets. Uh...ok, that's all I've got right now.
Let the questions begin...go on. Ask. You know you want to. I'll try and answer them before I leave for Thanksgiving on Tuesday afternoon.
The good news is, this week will be dead at work, so I will be doing a LOT of reading! Yay! So for Anne, Sam, Mo, Ster, Stephanie, Sassafras, NML, Vixen and anyone else I've forgotten--coming soon to a blog near you: my comments!
Guess what I bought? This. Woo-hoo! Can't wait until it gets here for the holidays. And I got a good deal on it-- $180 + shipping. This means I will have WAY more pics on my blog, too.
I did absolutely nothing this weekend. Yeah, I am officially boring. I didn't go out, I didn't see anyone other than my dog and my roommate. How exciting. I guess that's the end of my blog, right? Kidding. I have lots more bitching and craziness to share.
I haven't even told you the story of The Time My Brother Was Green yet.
Or the story of My Valentine's Day Revenge.
Or My Smallest Small-World Moment Ever.
Or about the other ex who found me on myspace.
Or The Craziest College Night I Ever Had.
See? I have so much more to share.
Unfortunately, that day is not today. It's too hard to type like this. Sorry, folks.
Wait, let me back up. One thing happened this weekend. My roommate did call me at 2am Saturday night to ask me to come and pick her up. It seems she was out with some buddies and they decided to take the truck they were riding in and do doughnuts in the parking lot of a car dealership. Because that's what mature 25 year-olds (and 31 year-olds) do, right? I guess that when they did this one doughnut, they hit the curb and managed to blow out the tire. And the spare had some kind of a lock on it. The owner didn't have the key with him, so they couldn't put the spare on. So I got to pick him, his buddy and my roommate up at 2am. The guys crashed on our couch and figured out what to do in the morning.
I really didn't mind picking them up all that much, because they were so embarrassed that it was just funny by the time I got there. They were really proud of themselves this morning, let me tell ya! I will be able to tease them for weeks about this. Of course, they were pretty hung over as well.
Aside from that, I shopped all weekend for house stuff. You know how it is when you move--things that stored fine at the old place suddenly have nowhere to go at the new place, so you have to get organizationally creative. So I wasn't buying very fun things. I actually spent Saturday night putting together a bathroom storage cabinet.
Ok, I have to stop right here, because this is the most boring post I think I've ever written EVER. To make it more interesting, how about this:
Go ahead. Ask me anything. This is your chance to ask me whatever--that little thing that you've wondered about me. This is your chance to ask. Think of it as a big "thank you!" for reading my blog. Now you get to be nosy. I love it when other bloggers do this, so I know you do, too. Oh, and before you ask, no, I won't put up a pic of what I look like. You'll just have to imagine that I look like...Charlize Theron. Or something.
Note: I reserve the right to ignore sick, perverted or otherwise inappropriate questions. Especially if they come from anonymous readers. Questions from lurkers are especially welcome, as I have no idea what y'all are thinking because you never comment! (Which is fine, btw! I'm just curious...)
Can't think of a question? Here are some ideas to get you started. I have a huge, eccentric family. I love to travel. I am boy crazy. I dislike socks. I am obsessed with my dog--so much that I ordered some address return labels with his picture on them.( Oh yes, I am that girl.) I have bad taste in music. I work in a library. I fear crickets. Uh...ok, that's all I've got right now.
Let the questions begin...go on. Ask. You know you want to. I'll try and answer them before I leave for Thanksgiving on Tuesday afternoon.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Cake Class Girl & The General
I posted a (late) Thursday 13 below, btw. Go read it. I'll wait....
So after our last cake decorating class, four of us went to grab some Mexican food. We had all sat near each other in class, so we had bummed powdered sugar and borrowed icing tips from each other. We gossiped and chatted each week while we frosted our cakes. We had complimented each others' cakes and laughed with each other when our icing clowns melted or when our roses withered. They were really nice, and they are one of the main reasons why I really had fun in the class.
We had fun talking and eating over Mexican, too. The adorable girl from my cake class (I'll call her Cake Class Girl) and I exchanged numbers, so we will hang out soon. Yay! Did I tell you that she's actually a professionally trained chef? As in, graduated from culinary school? Yeah. That is so cool. She is so nice. One of those incredibly nice people. There should be more people like that in the world.
I only have one hesitation: I think she may be a Bible-beater. Which is fine. I just hope she isn't one of the ones who cannot talk about anything else. Because that gets old. Don't get me wrong-- I go to church sometimes. I believe in God and Jesus. I pray, and I try to lead a Christian lifestyle. I'm not very good at it.....and this girl makes me feel like lightning will strike me at any minute....so we will see. She may have just come off like that because we did talk about what church we all go to as we were eating. It could have just been a conversation tangent.
I probably just pissed off some people just now....but oh well. It was bound to happen one day.
Oh. Before I forget. In the past few weeks, I have received news that two of my friends have gotten engaged. One is part of my group of friends I like to call "The Nurses", although, like me, she isn't a nurse. This is her 4th engagement. She has been dating the guy for a whopping 6 weeks. Place your bets now....I'm so mean, aren't I? I think she's a nice person. I really do. But the girl has some issues for your tissues. (I should start calling her that, actually!) She is beautiful, I will say that. She's definitely the prettiest one of all of us. It's really not very surprising that she's had 4 different rings on her hand. But she is apparently a runaway bride! And just between you and me, her fiancee gives me the creeps. He's just a little too friendly with her girlfriends, if you ask me....
What is with me today? I'm being a bitch.
Anyway, the other person is Kermit, the German Nurse's brother. He's getting married to a very pretty girl. I've met her once. She seems ok. I wasn't blown away by her or anything, but then again, I don't really know her. He seems happy and excited, so that's what matters. They are getting married around April.
Now for my story.
Time: Fall 1999 (?) -- I think...
Place: Indian University, Bloomington, IN
Note: This story took place before I became the sports fan I am today.
I was either a sophomore or junior in college. A few weeks previously, my sorority had gone to a nearby school to party with a fraternity for the weekend. Being sorority girls, we had tshirts made. We called the event Shack Attack. The back of the tshirt read: "I shacked with ______ " and you were supposed to fill in the name of some guy/girl, I guess. Of course, no one wanted to actually put a name there, so everyone left it blank.
Except me.
You see, I had no game, even then, and I ended up falling asleep, alone, on the couch in the front hall. In the morning, I was awakened by something warm and soft...and slobbery. It was the house dog, and he was licking my face. Yuck. I got up and asked one of the brothers what the dog's name was. He replied, "The General."
As a joke, I put that down as the person I "shacked" with. So the back of my t-shirt said, "I shacked with The General."
Flash forward 6 months. I am with some girlfriends and we make a late-night run to Denny's as an exam week study break. I'm wearing the t-shirt. I am sitting with my back to an empty table. As we are dining, a group of guys comes in and sits down at that table.
I was enjoying my meal, when I realized the guys were snickering at us. It kept getting louder and they seriously would not knock it off! Annoyed, I asked my girlfriend, "What is their problem?" and she replied, "VB, that's the entire Indiana men's basketball team. And your shirt says you shacked up with their coach."
"Oh."
So after our last cake decorating class, four of us went to grab some Mexican food. We had all sat near each other in class, so we had bummed powdered sugar and borrowed icing tips from each other. We gossiped and chatted each week while we frosted our cakes. We had complimented each others' cakes and laughed with each other when our icing clowns melted or when our roses withered. They were really nice, and they are one of the main reasons why I really had fun in the class.
We had fun talking and eating over Mexican, too. The adorable girl from my cake class (I'll call her Cake Class Girl) and I exchanged numbers, so we will hang out soon. Yay! Did I tell you that she's actually a professionally trained chef? As in, graduated from culinary school? Yeah. That is so cool. She is so nice. One of those incredibly nice people. There should be more people like that in the world.
I only have one hesitation: I think she may be a Bible-beater. Which is fine. I just hope she isn't one of the ones who cannot talk about anything else. Because that gets old. Don't get me wrong-- I go to church sometimes. I believe in God and Jesus. I pray, and I try to lead a Christian lifestyle. I'm not very good at it.....and this girl makes me feel like lightning will strike me at any minute....so we will see. She may have just come off like that because we did talk about what church we all go to as we were eating. It could have just been a conversation tangent.
I probably just pissed off some people just now....but oh well. It was bound to happen one day.
Oh. Before I forget. In the past few weeks, I have received news that two of my friends have gotten engaged. One is part of my group of friends I like to call "The Nurses", although, like me, she isn't a nurse. This is her 4th engagement. She has been dating the guy for a whopping 6 weeks. Place your bets now....I'm so mean, aren't I? I think she's a nice person. I really do. But the girl has some issues for your tissues. (I should start calling her that, actually!) She is beautiful, I will say that. She's definitely the prettiest one of all of us. It's really not very surprising that she's had 4 different rings on her hand. But she is apparently a runaway bride! And just between you and me, her fiancee gives me the creeps. He's just a little too friendly with her girlfriends, if you ask me....
What is with me today? I'm being a bitch.
Anyway, the other person is Kermit, the German Nurse's brother. He's getting married to a very pretty girl. I've met her once. She seems ok. I wasn't blown away by her or anything, but then again, I don't really know her. He seems happy and excited, so that's what matters. They are getting married around April.
Now for my story.
Time: Fall 1999 (?) -- I think...
Place: Indian University, Bloomington, IN
Note: This story took place before I became the sports fan I am today.
I was either a sophomore or junior in college. A few weeks previously, my sorority had gone to a nearby school to party with a fraternity for the weekend. Being sorority girls, we had tshirts made. We called the event Shack Attack. The back of the tshirt read: "I shacked with ______ " and you were supposed to fill in the name of some guy/girl, I guess. Of course, no one wanted to actually put a name there, so everyone left it blank.
Except me.
You see, I had no game, even then, and I ended up falling asleep, alone, on the couch in the front hall. In the morning, I was awakened by something warm and soft...and slobbery. It was the house dog, and he was licking my face. Yuck. I got up and asked one of the brothers what the dog's name was. He replied, "The General."
As a joke, I put that down as the person I "shacked" with. So the back of my t-shirt said, "I shacked with The General."
Flash forward 6 months. I am with some girlfriends and we make a late-night run to Denny's as an exam week study break. I'm wearing the t-shirt. I am sitting with my back to an empty table. As we are dining, a group of guys comes in and sits down at that table.
I was enjoying my meal, when I realized the guys were snickering at us. It kept getting louder and they seriously would not knock it off! Annoyed, I asked my girlfriend, "What is their problem?" and she replied, "VB, that's the entire Indiana men's basketball team. And your shirt says you shacked up with their coach."
"Oh."
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Bombs Away!
I have been totally MIA this week. Work is crazy and I'm going to the beach on Thursday, so I have been super duper busy. Sorry to all--promise I will try to catch up on reading blogs soon. I tried to put up some accompanying photos to this post, but Blogger won't let me post pics right now.
I told this story to MJ this past weekend, and realized it would make a great blog post. Just like I told her, this story is so weird that I will not be surprised if you don't believe me. But I swear to God this happened.
When I was around 8 years old, I was coming home from the grocery store with The Czarina and my siblings. At the time, we were living in the middle of nowhere in rural Virginia. It was an old farmhouse, complete with big porch, livestock fields and a barn.
When we turned into our long driveway, we realized the National Guard had paid us a visit. There were NG people all over our property. They had their uniforms and machinery and big trucks. There were NG people running around and talking.
Of course, Czarina was thinking, "Great, what did WLF do now?"
All of us kids were shouting, "Cool!"
So why were we invaded? Get this: While we were at the store, WLF and our neighbor, One Leg*, were behind the barn, clearing out some weeds and underbrush. I guess WLF wanted to use that area for something. As they are clearing away the area, One Leg shouts out, "Man, I think this is a bomb! Why do you have this in your yard?"
So WLF goes over there. How about there are 4 friggin BOMBS in our backyard!!! They had been buried a few inches into the ground and then the weeds and stuff had grown over them, so we never knew they were there. My dad looks at the bombs and recognized them. "Hey! I know what these are! These are the kind of bombs they dropped off of planes in WWII!" (In addition to being a taxidermy enthusiast, my father was also a WWII buff.)
Then they are freaking out because--duh--they could get blown to smithereens. So the jump out of there and call the National Guard. They laugh at my dad. WLF insists there are bombs buried behind his house. They laugh some more, but send a guy over to check it out. The guy nearly craps his pants because my dad is not joking. He calls for backup. They all come over, thinking that these are just old shells and they should just get them out of there and throw them away properly. Right after that is when we got home. WLF filled Mom in on the story. She sent us to the house, much to our dismay.
As the National Guard is looking at them and loading them onto their trucks, they realize the bombs are live. Czarina about lost it. We played back behind the barn sometimes. And we could have been blown to pieces all these years. And the NG people had just been tossing the bombs into the backs of the trucks. Holy. Freaking. Cow.
So what's the story? We don't really know. All we can figure is that someone stole them from a nearby military base after WWII, perhaps as a souvenir. They thought they had old empty shells, then realized they had stolen real bombs, freaked out, and buried them in the backyard. They had probably been there for like 40 years. (This was WLF's theory.)
This is the story we were going with. We never did find out why there were bombs buried behind our house. Crazy, huh?
*Yes, he really did have one wooden leg. Farming accident.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Library Freaks, Part 1
Forwarded to me by Boss Lady today:
Man Indicted in Library Toe-Sucking
A grand jury indicted Joseph Colella, 28, for felony gross sexual imposition after he allegedly kissed a woman's foot and sucked her toe at the Boardman branch of the Public Library of Youngstown and Mahoning County, OH .
The woman said she was in a study room at the library July 11 when Colella entered and closed the door, according to the July 25 Youngstown Vindicator. She said Colella told her he needed to kiss people's feet and record their reactions for a sociology project. She refused, but eventually allowed him to because he kept insisting and she didn't think he would leave unless she agreed.
She went home and later called the library; a staffer told her to call the police. Detective Michelle DiMartino told the paper that Colella is also a suspect in a similar event at the library from 2000. If convicted, Colella could be imprisoned for six to 18 months and fined up to $5,000.
You can read another account of this story here.
Man Indicted in Library Toe-Sucking
A grand jury indicted Joseph Colella, 28, for felony gross sexual imposition after he allegedly kissed a woman's foot and sucked her toe at the Boardman branch of the Public Library of Youngstown and Mahoning County, OH .
The woman said she was in a study room at the library July 11 when Colella entered and closed the door, according to the July 25 Youngstown Vindicator. She said Colella told her he needed to kiss people's feet and record their reactions for a sociology project. She refused, but eventually allowed him to because he kept insisting and she didn't think he would leave unless she agreed.
She went home and later called the library; a staffer told her to call the police. Detective Michelle DiMartino told the paper that Colella is also a suspect in a similar event at the library from 2000. If convicted, Colella could be imprisoned for six to 18 months and fined up to $5,000.
You can read another account of this story here.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
The Drunk Bunny, Or, Why I Hate Dark Beer
So I am here at work. In flip flops. I am retarded. When I go home at lunch to walk Sammy (yes, he is totally spoiled), I put on my flip flops. Well, inevitably, I have forgotten to put my work shoes back on before heading back to work. Nice.
Luckily, I work in a field where the dress code is pretty relaxed. And as a librarian, no one expects me to be a fashionplate, anyway. Which explains my outfit today: a mesh polo shirt with a black ruffled skirt. This outfit is dumb. Who would ever put that together? *sigh* But I didn't feel like ironing anything today and the black ruffled skirt was calling my name. Now I've paired it with flip flops. Sheesh. Could I look any stupider?
The good thing is, since I don't put any effort into what I wear to work, I can put it all into my going out/party clothes. Much more fun. People usually tell me they don't recognize me when they see me in different environments. I am like a Day-to-Night Barbie. My two looks couldn't be more opposite.
Ok, tangent over. It's storytime, kids! I was over at Anne's and she had a rather embarrassing moment earlier this month. I am telling this story to make her feel better. It's a doozy.
Setting: Halloween, 1997, Bloomington, Indiana. My freshman year @ IU.
My girlfriends and I are going party hopping for Halloween. So we are in costume. I am a bunny. I'm wearing jeans, a fuzzy white sweater, bunny ears and a bunny tail pinned to my butt. One of my cuter costumes if I do say so myself. I kept making jokes about how I was party "hopping". Har har.
The key bit of information you need to know is that my boyfriend at the time had been getting on my nerves. We had been arguing. (Looking back on it now, I wasn't being very understanding of his situation. Huh. Go figure. This is typical VB behavior.) And I could tell we were going to break up soon. So what did I do? Like many people, I decided I needed to "escape" for a few hours. (Read: get plastered).
So I am at this house party, down in the basement. Because that's where the keg is. The keg of dark beer. I'd been chugging it. As in, getting back in line when I'm halfway done with the first cup. Chugging the rest right as I'm up for a refill.
Think about that for a second. Grossed out yet? Yeah, me too.
I'm feeling pretty good. Buzzing is really not strong enough of a term to use. I'm to the point that I'm almost having an out-of-body experience. I can't even talk anymore. The only thing I can do is keep getting back in line. Although, I am slowing down a bit. So I take a seat on the couch next to my friend Jill. By now, I'm somewhere in the vicinity of Michelob Dark Solo cupful #8. I left my dorm room about an hour previously. I was on a mission to get as much alcohol into my body as fast as possible. I was having a beer drinking contest, all by myself. I turn to Jill, who is in the middle of a conversation with someone else.
"Jill..." I say.
"Yeah?" she says.
"I'm gonna barf."
Now, keep in mind that there are about 100 people here, and I know a grand total of 2 party guests. And Jill has about 5 seconds to get me upstairs and outside so I can barf in the bushes. She is pushing me up the stairs (smart girl, getting behind me!). At the top of the stairs, there is a door to the kitchen. I fling it open, which causes the 50 or so people in the kitchen to all turn at once, only to watch me pojectile vomit all over the place. Jill pushed me outside onto the porch where I continued barfing for about an hour. Soon my crush showed up to watch and ask Jill if she needed any help. Faaaaaabulous. I was so trashed, I couldn't even say hi.
Finally someone took me home (to this day I don't remember who it was). I woke up the next morning in my dorm room with someone else's shirt on me. I vaguely remember Jill helping me change out of my formerly beautiful fuzzy white sweater and into something she raided from a closet. The sweater was ruined. My shoes had barf all over them. I had a hangover for 48 hours.
And that's why I hate dark beer.
Luckily, I work in a field where the dress code is pretty relaxed. And as a librarian, no one expects me to be a fashionplate, anyway. Which explains my outfit today: a mesh polo shirt with a black ruffled skirt. This outfit is dumb. Who would ever put that together? *sigh* But I didn't feel like ironing anything today and the black ruffled skirt was calling my name. Now I've paired it with flip flops. Sheesh. Could I look any stupider?
The good thing is, since I don't put any effort into what I wear to work, I can put it all into my going out/party clothes. Much more fun. People usually tell me they don't recognize me when they see me in different environments. I am like a Day-to-Night Barbie. My two looks couldn't be more opposite.
Ok, tangent over. It's storytime, kids! I was over at Anne's and she had a rather embarrassing moment earlier this month. I am telling this story to make her feel better. It's a doozy.
Setting: Halloween, 1997, Bloomington, Indiana. My freshman year @ IU.
My girlfriends and I are going party hopping for Halloween. So we are in costume. I am a bunny. I'm wearing jeans, a fuzzy white sweater, bunny ears and a bunny tail pinned to my butt. One of my cuter costumes if I do say so myself. I kept making jokes about how I was party "hopping". Har har.
The key bit of information you need to know is that my boyfriend at the time had been getting on my nerves. We had been arguing. (Looking back on it now, I wasn't being very understanding of his situation. Huh. Go figure. This is typical VB behavior.) And I could tell we were going to break up soon. So what did I do? Like many people, I decided I needed to "escape" for a few hours. (Read: get plastered).
So I am at this house party, down in the basement. Because that's where the keg is. The keg of dark beer. I'd been chugging it. As in, getting back in line when I'm halfway done with the first cup. Chugging the rest right as I'm up for a refill.
Think about that for a second. Grossed out yet? Yeah, me too.
I'm feeling pretty good. Buzzing is really not strong enough of a term to use. I'm to the point that I'm almost having an out-of-body experience. I can't even talk anymore. The only thing I can do is keep getting back in line. Although, I am slowing down a bit. So I take a seat on the couch next to my friend Jill. By now, I'm somewhere in the vicinity of Michelob Dark Solo cupful #8. I left my dorm room about an hour previously. I was on a mission to get as much alcohol into my body as fast as possible. I was having a beer drinking contest, all by myself. I turn to Jill, who is in the middle of a conversation with someone else.
"Jill..." I say.
"Yeah?" she says.
"I'm gonna barf."
Now, keep in mind that there are about 100 people here, and I know a grand total of 2 party guests. And Jill has about 5 seconds to get me upstairs and outside so I can barf in the bushes. She is pushing me up the stairs (smart girl, getting behind me!). At the top of the stairs, there is a door to the kitchen. I fling it open, which causes the 50 or so people in the kitchen to all turn at once, only to watch me pojectile vomit all over the place. Jill pushed me outside onto the porch where I continued barfing for about an hour. Soon my crush showed up to watch and ask Jill if she needed any help. Faaaaaabulous. I was so trashed, I couldn't even say hi.
Finally someone took me home (to this day I don't remember who it was). I woke up the next morning in my dorm room with someone else's shirt on me. I vaguely remember Jill helping me change out of my formerly beautiful fuzzy white sweater and into something she raided from a closet. The sweater was ruined. My shoes had barf all over them. I had a hangover for 48 hours.
And that's why I hate dark beer.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Crazy Story
I finally replied to everyone's comments in the last two posts. Thanks to everyone for the well wishes and welcome backs. Before I launch into the crazy story, I have to post some something I forgot to mention in the last post.
I was checking my messages on the way home. My ex, The Big Ex, called me. We dated for two years and broke up almost 3 years ago. I was totally devastated at the time--I was very much in love, and he broke up with me out of nowhere. It wouldn't have worked out anyway--he was moving to Florida and going back to school. We have kept in touch somewhat, and I'm over all the hurt, but since I've started dating Repo, we haven't talked. So this was very unexpected. I was curious and worried that something bad had happened to him, so I called him back. No answer. I left a message. He called me back the next day, and it turns out he just wanted to catch up. And you know what? For the first time, I had no desire to talk to him. None. I wanted to get the hell off the phone ASAP. I made no effort to lengthen the conversation or get into anything really personal. I didn't mention Repo and didn't ask him about his dating life. It was really weird. I guess I must be officially over him 100%. Whew! I thought that would never happen.
I haven't told Repo about the call. I don't really see the point. There is nothing for him to worry about. It's a non-issue. I would never get back together with him, and really don't see the point in ever talking to him again. Do you think I should tell? I dunno. Maybe I should....(and no, I don't think Repo still reads my blog, in case you are wondering.)
Ok, on to the Crazy Story. And by crazy, I mean kinda scary. And gory. So take that for what it's worth.
So the P family was staying with us at Czarina's. Their oldest daughter, GP, had a crazy thing happen to her the night before coming over. She was out with a guy friend of hers and they were going out to the bars or something. They stopped at a gas station in Arlington, VA on the way to get smokes. They walk inside and see two people on the floor, covered in pools of their own blood. No joke. And there was a third guy leaning over them.
This third guy sees GP and her friend and splits. She thinks he was actually trying to help the victims, but was afraid he would be framed for the attempted murder, and so he ran away. (It would be really hard for one guy to stab two people multiple times. So I don't think anyone really thought he was the perpetrator.) GP and her friend start to help the two men who are bleeding to death from what looks like multiple stab wounds. GP grabbed a sweatshirt from the car to absorb the blood coming from one guy's chest. She had to apply pressure until the ambulance and police got there. This guy was in really bad shape. All he could do was look at her and say, "Thank you."
Meanwhile, her friend was applying pressure on the other guy's chest. In a random stroke of luck, it turns out that GP's friend is fluent in Spanish, which is the language the guy is speaking. They had a conversation while he was trying to help him. I don't know what they talked about, but I can only assume it was about his injuries or the crime.
Finally the 911 people arrive and are taking the two men to the hospital. They get statements from GP and her friend who were now literally up to their elbows in blood. They found out later that the guy GP was helping died on the way to the hospital. How sad is that? The last person you see is a total stranger who is trying to stop you from bleeding to death on the floor of a convenience store.
They think there must have been more than one criminal, because it would be really hard for one person to stab two people multiple times. I don't know if they have any suspects or anything, but according to what I have learned from Courtv, multiple stab wounds usually indicate a lot of anger towards the victim, so maybe it was some guys they knew. (Shut up, I am an armchair detective.) I mean, if you were going to rob a convenience store, you wouldn't bring a knife--you'd bring a gun. So I don't think that was the motive. I don't know if the victims were gas station employees or just customers.
GP said it was amazing how you can bond with a stranger in a situation like that. In just a few minutes, she said that she could feel a connection between all four of them. I guess when you get down to it, it is just one person trying to help another, which is the beauty of humanity, in my opinion.
GP said that the saddest thing about the whole event was that while they were trying to help these two men, several cars pulled into the parking lot, only to see what was going on and just drive away. It's really sad that we live in a country where more people aren't willing to help a stranger in a situation like that. It makes me depressed just to think about it. What if it was your brother, or father, or boyfriend or husband? Wouldn't you want someone to help them? I mean, regardless of the situation, no one deserves to die like that.
Of course, now GP and her friend will have to be interviewed and possibly even go to court as witnesses one day. So maybe we will learn more about it later. I just thought this was so crazy. It sounds like something from a tv show.
I was checking my messages on the way home. My ex, The Big Ex, called me. We dated for two years and broke up almost 3 years ago. I was totally devastated at the time--I was very much in love, and he broke up with me out of nowhere. It wouldn't have worked out anyway--he was moving to Florida and going back to school. We have kept in touch somewhat, and I'm over all the hurt, but since I've started dating Repo, we haven't talked. So this was very unexpected. I was curious and worried that something bad had happened to him, so I called him back. No answer. I left a message. He called me back the next day, and it turns out he just wanted to catch up. And you know what? For the first time, I had no desire to talk to him. None. I wanted to get the hell off the phone ASAP. I made no effort to lengthen the conversation or get into anything really personal. I didn't mention Repo and didn't ask him about his dating life. It was really weird. I guess I must be officially over him 100%. Whew! I thought that would never happen.
I haven't told Repo about the call. I don't really see the point. There is nothing for him to worry about. It's a non-issue. I would never get back together with him, and really don't see the point in ever talking to him again. Do you think I should tell? I dunno. Maybe I should....(and no, I don't think Repo still reads my blog, in case you are wondering.)
Ok, on to the Crazy Story. And by crazy, I mean kinda scary. And gory. So take that for what it's worth.
So the P family was staying with us at Czarina's. Their oldest daughter, GP, had a crazy thing happen to her the night before coming over. She was out with a guy friend of hers and they were going out to the bars or something. They stopped at a gas station in Arlington, VA on the way to get smokes. They walk inside and see two people on the floor, covered in pools of their own blood. No joke. And there was a third guy leaning over them.
This third guy sees GP and her friend and splits. She thinks he was actually trying to help the victims, but was afraid he would be framed for the attempted murder, and so he ran away. (It would be really hard for one guy to stab two people multiple times. So I don't think anyone really thought he was the perpetrator.) GP and her friend start to help the two men who are bleeding to death from what looks like multiple stab wounds. GP grabbed a sweatshirt from the car to absorb the blood coming from one guy's chest. She had to apply pressure until the ambulance and police got there. This guy was in really bad shape. All he could do was look at her and say, "Thank you."
Meanwhile, her friend was applying pressure on the other guy's chest. In a random stroke of luck, it turns out that GP's friend is fluent in Spanish, which is the language the guy is speaking. They had a conversation while he was trying to help him. I don't know what they talked about, but I can only assume it was about his injuries or the crime.
Finally the 911 people arrive and are taking the two men to the hospital. They get statements from GP and her friend who were now literally up to their elbows in blood. They found out later that the guy GP was helping died on the way to the hospital. How sad is that? The last person you see is a total stranger who is trying to stop you from bleeding to death on the floor of a convenience store.
They think there must have been more than one criminal, because it would be really hard for one person to stab two people multiple times. I don't know if they have any suspects or anything, but according to what I have learned from Courtv, multiple stab wounds usually indicate a lot of anger towards the victim, so maybe it was some guys they knew. (Shut up, I am an armchair detective.) I mean, if you were going to rob a convenience store, you wouldn't bring a knife--you'd bring a gun. So I don't think that was the motive. I don't know if the victims were gas station employees or just customers.
GP said it was amazing how you can bond with a stranger in a situation like that. In just a few minutes, she said that she could feel a connection between all four of them. I guess when you get down to it, it is just one person trying to help another, which is the beauty of humanity, in my opinion.
GP said that the saddest thing about the whole event was that while they were trying to help these two men, several cars pulled into the parking lot, only to see what was going on and just drive away. It's really sad that we live in a country where more people aren't willing to help a stranger in a situation like that. It makes me depressed just to think about it. What if it was your brother, or father, or boyfriend or husband? Wouldn't you want someone to help them? I mean, regardless of the situation, no one deserves to die like that.
Of course, now GP and her friend will have to be interviewed and possibly even go to court as witnesses one day. So maybe we will learn more about it later. I just thought this was so crazy. It sounds like something from a tv show.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Most Embarrassing Moment #1
I've been meaning to share this one.
So I'm sitting in class as a college freshman. I was dating College Boyfriend #1 at the time. He lived closer to campus than I and since my class started at 9 am, I found it easier to just spend the night at his house. I would just bring a change of clothes and some toiletries and keep them in my backpack along with my school supplies.
I'm sitting front and center, because I am and always have been the teacher's pet kind of student. [Insert joke about how much of a nerd I am here.] I am listening to the lesson and taking notes diligently. I took my book out of my backpack to follow along.
Everything is going fine. Class is about 3/4 of the way over. I reached down to get something from my backpack when I realized that my dirty panties were on the floor. Dead smack dab in the middle of the floor for everyone to see. My black satin panties with red roses on them. I must have accidentally pulled them out along with some school item. I have no idea how long they were on the floor before I grabbed them and quickly stuffed them back into my backpack. I think I was beet red for the rest of class. If anyone else saw them, they never said a word about it.
And I never spent the night at his house on a weekday again.
So I'm sitting in class as a college freshman. I was dating College Boyfriend #1 at the time. He lived closer to campus than I and since my class started at 9 am, I found it easier to just spend the night at his house. I would just bring a change of clothes and some toiletries and keep them in my backpack along with my school supplies.
I'm sitting front and center, because I am and always have been the teacher's pet kind of student. [Insert joke about how much of a nerd I am here.] I am listening to the lesson and taking notes diligently. I took my book out of my backpack to follow along.
Everything is going fine. Class is about 3/4 of the way over. I reached down to get something from my backpack when I realized that my dirty panties were on the floor. Dead smack dab in the middle of the floor for everyone to see. My black satin panties with red roses on them. I must have accidentally pulled them out along with some school item. I have no idea how long they were on the floor before I grabbed them and quickly stuffed them back into my backpack. I think I was beet red for the rest of class. If anyone else saw them, they never said a word about it.
And I never spent the night at his house on a weekday again.
Friday, March 31, 2006
The Monkeys
Can you tell this week has been pretty ho-hum? I haven't posted much at all....but I thought of a good Fun Friday story to tell you.
I think animals are hysterically funny. I was talking to Sam about this on her blog and she wants me to share this story with my readers here. It's better told in person, since I can do the hand gestures, facial expressions, etc. But that's not really an option in the blogosphere! I hope you enjoy it anyway. Here goes.
So I'm watching TV with WLF (Dad) late one night. He always liked to watch
those nature shows, you know, the ones narrated by some old white guy with a British accent. This time it was about monkeys and baboons in Africa.
They did the whole schpiel about monkeys and their habitats and what they
eat, etc. Then at the end of the show, they did their little political blurb
about how mankind is encroaching upon the monkey territory/habitat and it is
causing problems, blah blah blah.
So as they are talking about the monkey/man conflict, they are showing this
little African elementary school playground. All the little African kids are
playing like normal, enjoying their recess, when suddenly they all evacuate the playground.
The monkeys were invading.
There were monkeys everywhere and they were all playing on the playground.
They took over within seconds. They were on the swings and the
teeter-totters and the little merry-go-round. The children made a large ring
around the playground to watch the monkeys on their playground. It was like
the monkey mafia or something. The children appeared confused and frustrated, while at the same time, amazed at their simian abilities to enjoy devices meant for human entertainment.
Anyway, these two monkeys climb waaaaaay up high on the tallest slide,
overlooking the whole playground. They are just standing there, staring at the children, and the children are staring at them. Everyone stops for a second. There is total silence.
The next thing you know, the two monkeys are at it doggy-style. And
the male monkey has this look on his face as he's staring at the kids like,
"What? What are you looking at?" Meanwhile the narrator was going on and on
about the monkey/man conflict like it was nothing.
My dad and I were rolling!!! I had tears streaming down my face! To this
day, that image cracks me up. I love nature.
I think animals are hysterically funny. I was talking to Sam about this on her blog and she wants me to share this story with my readers here. It's better told in person, since I can do the hand gestures, facial expressions, etc. But that's not really an option in the blogosphere! I hope you enjoy it anyway. Here goes.
So I'm watching TV with WLF (Dad) late one night. He always liked to watch
those nature shows, you know, the ones narrated by some old white guy with a British accent. This time it was about monkeys and baboons in Africa.
They did the whole schpiel about monkeys and their habitats and what they
eat, etc. Then at the end of the show, they did their little political blurb
about how mankind is encroaching upon the monkey territory/habitat and it is
causing problems, blah blah blah.
So as they are talking about the monkey/man conflict, they are showing this
little African elementary school playground. All the little African kids are
playing like normal, enjoying their recess, when suddenly they all evacuate the playground.
The monkeys were invading.
There were monkeys everywhere and they were all playing on the playground.
They took over within seconds. They were on the swings and the
teeter-totters and the little merry-go-round. The children made a large ring
around the playground to watch the monkeys on their playground. It was like
the monkey mafia or something. The children appeared confused and frustrated, while at the same time, amazed at their simian abilities to enjoy devices meant for human entertainment.
Anyway, these two monkeys climb waaaaaay up high on the tallest slide,
overlooking the whole playground. They are just standing there, staring at the children, and the children are staring at them. Everyone stops for a second. There is total silence.
The next thing you know, the two monkeys are at it doggy-style. And
the male monkey has this look on his face as he's staring at the kids like,
"What? What are you looking at?" Meanwhile the narrator was going on and on
about the monkey/man conflict like it was nothing.
My dad and I were rolling!!! I had tears streaming down my face! To this
day, that image cracks me up. I love nature.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Would You Like Me To Sedate You?
I can't believe I forgot to post about this. Another funny dating story from a guy friend of mine...
He had been working hard all day and was exhausted by the time he got home. He opened up the door to his apartment to find his wonderful girlfriend was already there. She used her key to get there early. She had walked his dog, tidied up the place, brought in his mail, had dinner cooking on the stove and handed him a beer right when he walked in the door. Not only had she done all that, but after looking around, he realized she was wearing nothing but one of his button down oxford shirts.
"What's all this?" he asked, happily.
"Well, you've been working really hard lately and you've been a great boyfriend to me, so I thought I'd surprise you."
"Oh, I'm surprised, trust me! That is so nice of you. I especially love that you are wearing one of my shirts. That's hot."
"I thought it would be nice if I sedated you for a change."
He paused. Thought about it. Tried his best to conceal a giggle. And decided to let her misuse of basic English vocabulary slide. Although, I have to say, they broke up not long after that. But not because of this. This is just a funny story.
He had been working hard all day and was exhausted by the time he got home. He opened up the door to his apartment to find his wonderful girlfriend was already there. She used her key to get there early. She had walked his dog, tidied up the place, brought in his mail, had dinner cooking on the stove and handed him a beer right when he walked in the door. Not only had she done all that, but after looking around, he realized she was wearing nothing but one of his button down oxford shirts.
"What's all this?" he asked, happily.
"Well, you've been working really hard lately and you've been a great boyfriend to me, so I thought I'd surprise you."
"Oh, I'm surprised, trust me! That is so nice of you. I especially love that you are wearing one of my shirts. That's hot."
"I thought it would be nice if I sedated you for a change."
He paused. Thought about it. Tried his best to conceal a giggle. And decided to let her misuse of basic English vocabulary slide. Although, I have to say, they broke up not long after that. But not because of this. This is just a funny story.
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