Sexy Snowplow Men

Maybe it's because they generally appear to be the exact opposite of me, in terms of interests. I'm sure some of them read poetry, but for the most part, they're different from me. They drive lifted trucks with large tires. They wear flannels and work boots. Their hands are callused from manual labor.

And I find it all extremely sexy.

Tonight, I was at Walmart. Yes, I know, I know. They pay their workers horrible wages and pull insurance scams, etc. Many other American corporations do the same thing. I know that I still shouldn't shop there, but I do anyway---for odds and ends. I was looking at a display of clearance sweatshirts. $6.50 for hooded sweatshirts--not a bad deal. The shirt selection was paltry though. There were lots of odd colors: purple, neons, bright blue, kelly green, and some gray ones too. The only shirts left were either men's small or men's 3XL.

I managed to snag a gray medium sized shirt--literally, the last one. After I left the display, these two guys walked over. They were medium height, medium weight... not really "built," but not scrawny either. They both had on flannels, zip up hoodies over the flannels, well-worn jeans, and light brown work boots. I didn't have to even see their faces and, immediately, I thought they were hot.

It's interesting how fast we can look at someone and gauge his attractiveness. According to an article at http://www.nature.com/scitable/blog/our-science/love_in_02_seconds, it can take a mere 0.2 seconds for the brain to release chemicals that "feel love." I'm assuming a short amount of time is also taken in regard to the brain responding to someone else's physical attractiveness.

I think it's always interesting to think of origins of our conceptions of attractiveness. Since high school, I can recall being attracted to "labor" looking guys. I even remember taking the Greyhound bus from Ohio to NYC (after visiting our grandmother for the holiday) and being attracted to the Amish men, with their long facial hair and large hands. I've never really dated any guys who did hard labor, although I once had a summer fling with a mechanic. He called his mother "Mommy" though, so I can't really associate him with being a true "masculine" type of guy.

I guess a lot of this has to come down to my father's death. I have minimal images of him in my memory, but the ones that stand out are ones related to his hard manual work. He was a contractor and drove a hunter green truck. He often wore this olive green knit beanie hat. When I see a man who resembles that description anyhow whatsoever, I think that my "father memory" radar goes off.

I call her red

This past summer, I dyed my hair a reddish brown. To me, the color was ridiculously noticeable. To everyone else, the color was ridiculously subtle.

To me, slight change of any kind is monumental change.

This past week, I had noticed that my "mousy brown" roots were overtaking my strands of "reddish brown." I decided that I wanted to be bolder with my hair color and truly make it noticeable. The color I purchased was from Garnier's Ultra Intense Red for Darker Hair collection. Ultra....Intense....Red... these words fully got my attention. The color itself was named "medium intense auburn." That color sounded innocent enough. My hair would be a bold red, but not "fire engine red," or "Dutch tulips red," or "pomegranate red."

In brief, the color I currently have is definitely intense, but it is not really medium or auburn. I look like I am paying homage to Kurt Cobain's red hair. I seem to constantly have a similar Cobainesque frown on my face too, a self-assertion that I feel like I look ridiculous.



I dyed my hair on Sunday afternoon and washed it twice. The drain looked like I had just taken a bath in cherry Kool-Aid.

When I walked into work on Monday, I took the side entrance. As soon as students came into homeroom, they uttered, "Oh my god. RED." It was said with such conviction that I knew that my hair looked crazy. One student asked, "Did you dye your hair?" I had 1,000 snarky comments to reply, but held them inside; I just felt like a complete idiot.

This week has been okay; I've had back and forth moments where I re-evaluate my views on the color. There are, however, still some major issues with it. One of the main issues is that the dye is so strong by the start of my hairline; I've been using large amounts of ivory concealer to cover up where the red remains linger on my skin. I seem to be accepting of the hair color when I am in dimly lit places, but the bright lights of classroom make my red hair as bright as possible, and do nothing flattering for my pasty white skin.

Tonight, I re-watched some clips from My So-Called Life. Garnier should redo the packaging for the color I have and call it "Angela Chase Red." While this color might have looked amazing on angsty, sixteen-year old me, it looks like shit on 33 year-old me.

I just made a Friday appointment to get my hair cut and reversed back to its glorious, mousy brown self.

Give me a fucking break.... Mr. Grey

Okay, so it's been over a year and a half since the first 50 Shades book was published. The book has clearly hit, pummeled, and annihilated the masses. My mother even read the book, although she was surprised at the content: "I thought it was going to be about sex with old people....50 shades of grey.... I've never done that type of sexual stuff though!" Okay, mother, TMI.

Last month, I finally read the first book in the series. It is definitely apparent that EL James turned a piece of Twilight fan fiction into erotica. Christian Grey is easily comparable to Edward. Edward broods because he is stuck "evermore" as a vampire; Christian is stuck with his "secret" and his "red playroom." Anastasia constantly lures Christian in with the nervous biting on her bottom lip. Kristen Stewart did the same bullshit move in the Twilight films; I'm not sure if the "real" Bella Swan chomped on her lips though.

The book is filled with cheesy lines and horrific metaphors & similes. There's lines about Anastasia's "inner goddess" being brought out by Christian. At one point, Anastasia compares herself to Icarus...are you fucking serious?

Despite how horribly written the book is, I've moved onto the second book in the series. I'm reading it on my Kindle and I have to chuckle at the lines that are marked as "most highlighted." Basically, any line at which I want to roll my eyes is a line which has earned thousands of highlights by readers. Here's a case in point, a line uttered by Christian Grey: "No, I'm doing this because I've finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with." 2,587 people (admittedly) highlighted that line. That line is a ripoff of the end of When Harry Met Sally and every other romantic comedy movie or book ever written.

Still though, I continue reading it. I guess that I share something in common with Mr. Grey: sadism.

Off to read more passages about inner goddesses, melting hearts, and quivering thighs....

Doodles

I was at a team meeting today (since it is the first one of the year, we discussed students' various home life issues----who DOESN'T have divorced parents in this day and age?) and needed a sheet of paper to jot something down. There was a freshly discarded sheet of paper lying diagonally at the top of the recycling bin. I grabbed it, jot down my notes, and didn't bother to look on the other side of the paper.

Once I went back to my classroom, I, out of curiosity, turned the paper over. There was hearts quickly doodled in purple ink. There was also a name written repeatedly with the first name's first letter, followed by a period and a last name. This is the kind of thing I recall doing in middle school, so I relate. I wrote "Mrs. Michelle Price" over and over. I had had a crush on Jesse since about third grade. By middle school, my crush on him had lasted longer than some of my current friends' relationships with adults.

The doodles that I found today did not strike me as odd. I work at a middle school and can understand the whimsical, romantic visions that come into young girls' minds.

This paper was exceptional though.

It was written by my co-worker!!

I know it is totally a female thing to write your name, either with a signature that includes an intended male partner's last name replacing your own or simply just your own signature. I know I had signed my name repeatedly "for fun" within the past few years.

I am not dumb enough to leave the paper freely accessible at my job.

Hilarious,

Martyrdom

Facebook---where people either post a little bit or where people post every single fucking facet of their lives.

Tonight, someone posted a picture of herself, intently staring at her MacBook, while her six month old infant reclined across her lap. She gave the photo a hashtag of "workingmother." That image brought a few questions to my mind. 1] Someone other than she obviously took the photo. Instead of having hubby take photos of you, why don't you have hubby take the baby off your lap and just get your work done? 2] Why do people feel compelled to post photos or comments and seek martyrdom status? There's tons of single mothers out there who probably don't even have time to pop onto Facebook. You don't see them posting photos of themselves doing five domestic tasks simultaneously. If you want to/have to be a working mother, that's fine. Women, in droves, have been doing it since the 70s; lots of women probably were doing it before then. There's no need to post your photos and seek praise. We all have our battles.

If we're going for martyrdom pictures, I should really post a picture of third-grade Michelle @ Halloween. My mother was drunk off her ass and I had to figure out my costumer for myself. I had a sparkly, green pseudo-Afro wig. I also had access to my mother's closet of 1960s clothing, all of which did not fit her anymore. I wore a fringy leather vest and, along with green Afro wig and bright face paint, was a clown. I should post that photo and hashtag it "fuckedupchildhoodbutendedupok." I don't know how the hell to hashtag something and I don't care to learn anyway.

Chatter

Teacher's workshops are quite amusing. They're not amusing because of the content, but because of the people.

Yesterday, I went to a workshop at William Paterson University. There was free coffee and danishes offered, so of course people were mingling by the food area for the most possible time. I can't fault them for this; I was standing around that area too. Free, watered-down coffee is something I can't avoid. The danishes were gross though---"institutional danishes" is what I would call them. Generally, if a food resembles something that was present in my college cafeteria, I do not dare try it.

When I arrived at WPU, rain was pounding. There was not flooding, sleet, hail, or anything else that could be classified as "dangerous." Nonetheless, the workshop presenter told the crowd of us that the workshop would be starting later because of the weather.  I found this to be hilarious.

Teacher workshops are constantly filled with abundant noise...not sounds, but pure noise. The chatter tends to dwindle once the workshop begins, but there are still rude attendants who will try to whisper to their friends. Whispering is the most obvious action ever, that ss--s-ss--ss sound. During the workshop, there were many times when cell phones ringed, buzzed, chimed, and chooed. You'd think that once one person's phone went off that others would mute theirs. Nope.

Teachers tend to attend workshops in pairs, minimally. I attend workshops whether or not someone else is going; I am 33. I think I can attend an instructional course by myself and make it through all the ins and outs of socializing with strangers. "The Quad" apparently disagreed with that sentiment.

"The Quad" was clearly a group of younger teachers--- mid 20s. They reminded me of some pseudo Sex and the City group; each female seemed to have her own style and personality. In my mind, I could even imagine characters' names connected to each individual girl. I'd say "woman," but it just does not seem to be an apt word. One girl was conservatively dressed- a subtle floral shirt with a khaki skirt; she was definitely the Charlotte of the group. One girl had a Vera Bradley bag and that's all I recall---the Miranda of the group.  One girl had a stylish peplum shirt on; she was the Carrie of the group. Then, came the Samantha of the group. She had on a gauzy cobalt blue shirt with black tank top underneath, turquoise skinny jeans, and gold-embellished sandals. It's great to be fashionable and all, but this is a teacher's workshop. I just don't get it.

Meshed in together, I could hear conversations pondering whether or not we would get a PD certificate, talk of effective lamination techniques, and ramblings about Cape Cod.

Basically, I heard this:

Eugene, Oregon

I go through patterns of activity and laziness. Last week was the week of activity. I went to the gym Sunday through Thursday and ate ridiculously well. On Saturday, we ate a brewery (grilled cheese on artisan bread, lots of beers, more lots of beers) and ever since then I have been in an activity slump. Some of my days this week have consisted of staying inside until 4pm and maybe going for a walk in the park, but nothing too strenuous. My eating has been average, but I have not been as careful as I was last week.

I hate when I get like this.

I start watching odd television late at night (documentaries on serial killers, for instance). During day time hours, I watch cheesy movies on Lifetime and other cable channels.

Fourth of July was fun, but it also featured a lack of activity. I ate so much to the point where I had stomach camps; whenever stomach cramps arise from eating, it truly is a low-in-life moment. We all definitely had a fun time, but when I looked at the photos from yesterday, I was disappointed. In full body view, I look heavy. My legs look like they struggle with carrying the rest of my weight. My face has always been round, but now it is even rounder, thus making my eyes look like small, crinkly orbs.

I often wonder if my days of laziness are connected to where I live. I know plenty of people who hike and do "nature things" in NJ, but those types of activities do not immediately come to my mind when I think of New Jersey. Instead, I think of shopping malls. I yearn to move out of NJ. It's expensive, it's crowded, and every time I look around it seems like more land is being plowed over and replaced with unnecessary condos and stripmalls. Today, I Googled Eugene, Oregon. Eugene's nicknames include "Emerald City" and "Emerald Valley." The city's motto is "A Great City for the Art and Outdoors."

I often wonder what I would be like if I lived somewhere that encouraged activity and community involvement. Would I be biking around town with my canvas tote bag and locally grown fruits and veggies? I know that image is so ridiculously stereotypical, but I wouldn't mind epitomizing that image.

As I have often said before, I am "okay" being in NJ for now but eventually... I need to go somewhere else. I should be cautious with my usage of "eventually." If I keep saying "eventually" and do not take any initiative, I might be stuck here. 

Crafting fucktard

I assume that I could do a search within this blog and find out the exact number, but I feel like I use the word "fucktard" pretty often. It's basically like saying "retard," but since "retard" is non-PC, "fucktard" seems acceptable. It's strange that a word which has the French --> English translation of "late" would be less acceptable than a word that features a curse word in the first syllable.

Tomorrow is July 4th and I am attending a friend's "White Trash BBQ." This is an event that I've attended two times before; attending this year will make it a true tradition. I feel like if you do something 3 consecutive years that it automatically equates to an official tradition.

I realize "white trash" is an offensive term and I don't ever really use it to refer to people. "Trashy," which is less offensive because it basically leaves race out of the phrase, is a term I use more often. Why should trashiness be limited to Caucasians?

When people hear the term "white trash," similar images probably come to mind: trailer parks in a state of disarray, trucker hats, bad hair, cleavage (inappropriate for a teen because of age, but inappropriate for an older woman because of general sag), sleeveless flannels, cut-off shorts, Southern rock, Confederate flags, teen pregnancy, and so on. If you do a Google image search for "white trash," that party theme is actually quite common.

Toni's WT4J BBQ, as it has been coined, takes place at her Mom's house in the Poconos. There's beer pong,  flip cup, barbecued meats, a hot dog cart, drunken watermelon, and... a shooting gallery. Across the street from the house is basically woods. Toni's mom takes shitty garage finds and hangs them in the trees; then, we spastically shoot at the items. One year, someone was shooting at an owl lamp and I ran across the street to save it. The owl lamp is OLD, heavy as anything, and features eyeless owls. I lugged it home, but it has been in my closet for 2 years. It's time to bring the damn thing out and actually have people shoot at it.

I generally am a crafting fucktard. In other words, I tend to have crafting ideas and get so far as buying the supplies. In fact, I go gung-ho with getting the supplies. Case in point: a few years ago, I wanted to do crafting with bottle caps. I got bottle caps from friends and from strangers on Freecycle. Currently, I have about 3,000 bottle caps--and that's probably an underestimation. Have I ever actually crafted with them? Nope.

I'm determined to craft for WT4J. I am making a fringy top. I found a tutorial from another white trash-themed party attendee:
http://bargainbecky.blogspot.com/2012/08/how-to-make-white-trash-shirt-with-pony.html

Right now, the shirt has been puffy painted; hello, flashback to 1988! As soon as it dries, I'll do the whole fringe/pony beads process and then.... completion of a crafting task:)

Curmudgeon

Facebook and other social networking sites get me down more often than they lift me up. Still though, I log onto Facebook 5-7x a day. The screen refreshes and suddenly updated "news" is in my feed. I'd say that 80% of the time, the "news" is related to "good news"-- pictures of family vacations, postings about job promotions and other celebratory events, positive comments about one's outlook on life... The other percentage of the time, the newsfeed contains complaints and generally negative utterances. Someone the other day posted about needed $100 battery for her car, blah, blah, blah.

Reading other people's complaints is annoying and I feel like hurling a virtual "Go fuck yourself" across the Internet. Reading people's self-promotion posts is also annoying, as it makes me feel like a lazy fuck who achieves nothing.

I tend to post observational comments. I never self-promote and I try not to complain.

Deep down though, I am certainly a curmudgeon.

I am going to use this post to rant and complain---to hurl that negativity out into the world.

1. I'm not impressed that you got your Master's at NYU or that you went to Oxford; your family is rich and accessible income can make many people's "dreams come true."

2. We used to be friends, but now you are too much of a hipster and I am too fat and the fact that our friendship has ended infinitely sucks.

3. I don't care about your new Subzero fridge or your clean shed; your husband is gigantic and I often wonder how you two had sex long enough for you to get pregnant.

4. Your grammar is so horrible and no one comments on it because of politeness, but you're a fucking idiot....but you probably make more money than me anyway.

5. I don't care that your child makes adorable comments at the dinner table.

6. Kudos on doing your extreme exercise regimen for 3 days, posting about it constantly, and then completely quitting.

Sometimes I think of the following quotation when I am poking around on Facebook:
"The reason we struggle with insecurity is because we compare our behind-the-scenes with everyone else's highlight reel." - Steve Furtick

I feel like a loser because I don't consider myself to have the "highlight reel" that others have...but I guess that's my problem and I have to try to sort it out.

Making them fit

The human memory is fascinating. Years will pass and you might not think of a specific moment. Then, out of nowhere, that memory comes back into existence. 

At the library today a patron took out a chick lit novel. The book cover featured a woman lying on a bed and trying to make her jeans budge over her upper thighs. I suppose it was meant to be an image that us "average" women could relate to, however the woman on the cover was fairly thin. I wondered why she would have to struggle to make her pants slide over her upper thighs; her upper thighs were not that fleshy anyway. 

Instantly, I flashbacked to an image from my childhood. A spring green and bright yellow floral comforter covers a bed. The headboard and base of the bed is white wicker. Above the headboard hang two wicker beach-themed pieces. A wedding photo of my mother and father is on the side wall, as is a marriage certificate. The room is always cold and smells like mothballs. 

It is my mother's master bedroom. After my dad passed away, my mother refused to sleep in the bed. For years, she slept on the couch in the living room. The master bedroom was reserved for "getting ready" for work and for doing the "pants maneuver." 

The pants maneuver occurred whenever my mother had a pair of jeans which no longer fit. She would lie flat on the bed, jeans at her ankles, squirming and squirming in order to get the pants over her stomach. When she grew desperate, she would take the waistband of the jeans and make a vertical cut on the right and left sides, thus giving herself more "space" to get into. 

I watched her to do this pants maneuver countless times in life. At one point, she just gave up and began wearing complete elastic-waisted pants. 

I've never done the pants maneuver myself, despite having jeans for which I have grown too big. Those jeans still remain in my dresser: the size 8 Limited jeans that I have not worn since college, the intentionally-tight-as-anything stretch jeans that my sister gave me, the size 13 juniors' denim shorts that I promised I would "lose weight for" and not have to wear again (now they don't fit), and others. 

My mother's pants maneuver had an effect on me: when jeans don't fit, I face reality and buy a new pair with a higher size. Many more women could use a dose of reality. 

Keep your nasty toes out of profile pics

It's Memorial Day weekend which, across NJ--both "down the shore" and up in North Jersey---is seen as a symbol of the start of summer. Today's weather was in the low 70s with photo-worthy blue skies, fleeting white clouds, and an occasional refreshing breeze. It truly was a "picture perfect day."

All over Facebook, people have been posting photos of themselves either poolside or oceanside. Most of these photos have been painfully similar. The focal point is a lovely beach or pool scene, however, in the foreground of these photos exists a pair of feet...sometimes the pair of feet extends upward and the viewer gets a little bit of leg. Either way, these photos are annoying and incredibly unattractive.

Case 1: The photographer's feet (these photos do tend to also be "selfies") featured bright pink nail polish, faded off on some nails and prominent on others. Gross.

Case 2: Paley McPalerton. The photographer's feet were pasty as anything. The legs were long and bird-like. I wondered if an ostrich had somehow grown human feet and was enjoying a poolside drink and sunning session.

Case 3: Eww. Someone posted photos of a beautiful, postcard beach scene...but her feet were incredibly nasty. The toes were not painted and, for that matter, were not even filed down to a normal length. The toe nails' lengths were uneven and reminded me of a monster from one of of those Pixar movies.

I don't know why girls tend to post these feet and beach/pool pics. My guess is that the photos are supposed to be whimsical and cute, but they are just the opposite to me. Unless you just got a pedicure and have an ultra cute design on your adorable little toes, simply give me the beautiful beach/pool scenery---- minus the inclusion of your nasty feet...or...in some case, what looks to be hooves. 

House Party

During high school, I am certain that there were tons of house parties.  I assume that these were generally at homes of football players and other athletes, but I'm sure that the band kids let loose when their parents were out of town too.

I never went to a house party during my high school years.

Last night, at age 32,  I went to my first house party. I am using house party in the traditional way: a party hosted when one's parents are out of town. Our house party hostess was 30.

I know a staggering amount of people my age who live at home.  There's nothing essentially wrong with living at home, but I wouldn't ever be able to do it because 1] my mother would drive me to madness and 2] I am extremely concerned with my privacy. It's enough that I can hear my neighbor bring his dog outside to "Go potty" and hear the Saturday morning noise of lawnmowers; I wouldn't be able to stand dating/being intimate with someone in my parent's home.

We got into some downer conversations last night. Serious topics arose: student loans, mortgages that people own, the bullshit of "American dream," the bullshit of "American dream" achievement in NJ, and so on.

With the movie Gatsby coming out, the term "lost generation" has been prominent in my mind. Nowadays, with people my age either living at home, being jobless, or just postponing other elements of their adulthood, the term lost generation comes to mind. I recognize that post WWI 20 somethings versus 20 somethings in 2013 are people with two entirely different situations. I still feel that people my age are lost. We can go to college and seemingly do all of the "right things" to get our life in line, but then things just go unexpectedly---not able to afford rent, tons of student loans, having a college degree but ending up with a job that might not even require one...

At this point though, I don't think that things are going unexpectedly anymore...they're going expectedly. It's a fucking downer though. 

Six word memoirs

Inbox emails are incessant. My work email currently has 232 emails; I managed to delete 43 emails during the past hour. Most of the emails were article links that I texted to myself or poem-of-the day emails that I had not yet read. One of the emails had a link to a book called Things Don't Have to Be Complicated. The book was a project by Larry Smith in which he asked people to send him illustrations, complete with six words to epitomize the person's life. Smith published the illustrations and six word memoirs; respondents included 8 year olds all the way through 30-somethings.

I got to thinking about my own word word memoirs(s.) Obviously, encapsulating one's life into six words is challenging---duh. When you really earnestly try to choose those six words though, it is incredibly challenging.

Here are some of my ideas:

Kind, but I sting eternally too.

I am my own worst enemy.

Sensitive to sounds; struggle with touch.

Acne or obesity? I'd take obesity.

Shards and kaleidoscope are favorite words.

Green traffic lights make me beautiful.

Weight loss goals include prominent clavicle.

Co-workers think babies are life's purpose.

Here's the link for the article about the book:
http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/01/09/six-word-memoirs-students/

Good deed done

I don't know if a person can claim that a good deed is completed if the "good deed" is related to a family member.

I just got off the phone with my mother; we were on the phone for an hour. The last time we spoke was around Christmas. Since then, she has called me twice and I have not bothered to listen to the voicemails. I assume they would go something like this: "It's your mother...haven't talked to you in awhile... I'm good here...Spice [the cat] is good too..I'm reading a lot...you got me addicted to books!...call me sometime."

She is so phenomenally predictable.

Tonight, she repeated lines from a previous conversation two times. Repeating one's self seems normal enough, but if you barely talk to someone on the phone and she is repeating herself, then that's an issue. My mother talked about WalMarK...one of the most annoying words that she says. She also continues the k-for-a-t pattern when she says KMarK. She calls my sister-in-law Ray-leen, when the name is Raelen. Mispronunciations are her strong point.

She also repeated something from our last conversation. Basically, she since makes NO income, she gets lot of deductions on her bills and get free things such as cell phone minutes. Each month, she gets 4 hours of free cell phone minutes and for a mere $5.00, she could get three more hours. In my mother's words, "Sometimes it pays to be poor."

She is such an irritating and selfish individual whose utterly predictable behavior induces me to have an instant headache.

So...I did my good deed for the week...spoke to her for over an hour and did not once scoff, breathe heavily and irritatedly, or say a short, sarcrastic response to her. Now, I'll just wait another three months until I once again talk to "Whiting" (she's identified in my phone by the name of the town where she lives).

The devil and the angel

Recently, work has been stressful. Even more emphasis is being placed on the standardized tests and I find myself using timers all the time, saying statements like, "You'll have 45 minutes for this task when you take the NJASK." We have a new teacher evaluation model in place and I feel like no matter what I do, I am destined for a 3 ("average") or even a 2 (needs improvement).

At a recent team meeting, a few of us were discussing how we know others in different occupations who make more or = what we make, plus they have the added bonus of less stress-inducing factors (parents, state tests, administration, etc). The topic of bartending came up.  One of my co-workers said she feels like calling a resort in the Caribbean, inquiring about hiring opportunities, and flying down to that location over spring break.

My sister is a bartender in Florida and I definitely see the allure of the job. She lives about five blocks from the beach, works outside in the later afternoon/ evening hours, and gets to have fun. I doubt that it is entirely an "easy" job; you do have to deal with alcoholics and people drowning sorrows with liquor. As a temporary gig though, it could be fun.

My sister is tall and tan with sun-kissed blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She can walk into any bar and get hired instantly.

I am shorter and pale with mousy brown hair and bright blue eyes. 25% of me matches her. I would not be able to walk into a bar and instantly get hired.

I did, however, come up with a "occupation plan." By myself, I may not have much allure, but when you combine two sisters together, people are instantly fascinated. I imagine us bartending on the beach, with some nickname related to our sibling status and opposite personalities. I could see my sister working the bar with a small top, short red leather skirt, devil horns, and strategically placed tail. I could wear a white tank top, longER skirt, and a halo headband. Angel and devil are so cliched and overplayed, but I bet we'd be talked about bartenders for awhile. It's so cheesy that it could actually work. 

Does anyone like this place?

I've been in an anti-Jersey mood lately, even moreso than usual. I just wonder how many people out there actually "love" this state versus the amount of people who are here because of closeness to family members or closeness to abundant salaries.

NJ souvenirs include the ubiquitous "Jersey girls don't pump gas" tees.  Honestly, the fact that I don't have to pump gas is an added bonus in the cold winter months, but I'd survive if I had to  pump my own. There's always the Jersey shirts that declare messages about being a tough, badass person. I don't think of tough, badass people when I think of NJ. Instead, I think of fast-talking, self-involved people who simply like to put on an act of being tough.

I just can't imagine what people love about this state. We're known for having the highest population density. We're also known for being a shopping mall mecca. Also, Nj has a higher incidence rate for both cancer and deaths from cancer.

When I think of this state, I think of the word "wasteland." I haven't read TS Eliot's work of the same name (I'm assuming that he, in fact, "invented" that word) since college, but I feel the sudden need to go back and read it.

The people who "love" this state are the ones who have their beach houses and exclusive memberships to small tracts of land on which they can golf, ride horses, or do other activities for which other states have tons of space.

I can't imagine being here for my entire life. 

Best personification of the week

I'm always aware of creative language, but during the school year my awareness of it increases exponentially.

Tonight, I gave in and purchased a new Ipod. My previous Ipod started intermittently dysfunctioning, as of last Sunday. I tried a "diagnostic test" for broken sectors, but to no avail. I tried putting the Ipod in the freezer (recommended by someone on Apple forums). The Ipod worked for 3 consecutive songs and then zonked out again. I'd like a 160GB Ipod, but don't feel like buying it now. That led me to this evening's quest: go to where the devil lives (Walmart) and buy an Ipod Shuffle.

After yesterday's rain and high temperatures (57 degrees), today took a 180 degree turn. The skies were that wintry gray color. When skies are like that, I call them "indecisive skies"--the kind of skies that look like they could start blowing snowflakes around.....or..... the type of skies that are just miserable-looking, but that are simply "bluffing." The temperatures dropped down to 26 degrees and I could once again see my breaths in the air.

As I walked into Walmart, there was a cart-pusher standing on the sidewalk, taking a break. Cart-pusher is such an odd word, but I Googled it and could not find an alternative. I could clearly sense that the "cart-pusher on break" was slow and had some kind of developmental issue.

He said to me, "It's cold outside today." Normally, I hate those obvious kind of statements, but with this man, I knew that a kind reply would make his day. I replied, "Yeah, it was even snowing a tiny bit before."

Then, he responded with words that were simultaneously child-like and lovely: "Mother Nature gave me a cold kiss today."

Immediately, my mind thought That's the best personification I've heard all week. The comment also made me smile. When most of us comment with words like, "This weather sucks" or "It's so fucking cold," this guy came up with a lovely image.

Telling it like it is

Nowadays, we shroud the reality of situations in kinder, gentler words. If somebody can't pay attention, whether due to being overly active or being in a daze, we have a name for it. If someone is overweight, "obese" seems like a kinder word; afterall, it is an epidemic. If someone loses all sense of calmness in a situation, she may be anxious, or actually have a full-blown anxiety order. Words like fat and crazy never come into play as they are seen as "inappropriate."

Flashback to 1863. It was post Civil War and, amidst the abolition of slavery, William Banting, a previously overweight white man, desired to tell the world how he lost weight. He wrote Letter on Corpulence: Addressed to the Public. Banting detailed how he got rid of sugars and simple carbs, replacing those foods with meats, vegetables, fruits, and even the occasional glass of wine. Basically, Banting should be convulsing at his gravesite due to multi-million (billion?) dollar industry is the low-carb craze. Since he was an undertaker and coffin maker by trade, he's probably rolling back and forth in a pretty luxurious coffin.

Low-carb talk aside, I do simply love the word corpulence. It makes me think of Rubens' paintings of full-figured women, Lane Bryant models of the 1630s--- pendulous breasts, sturdy legs, and protruding bellies. Corpulent makes me think of the gopher from Caddyshack. Corpulent makes me think of a mound of mashed potatoes, covered with peas, carrots, squares of subpar ham, and small shreds of cheese. It makes me think of Everything Fried, the short-lived eatery in the Livingston Mall whose goal was to put basically anything in batter and then fry it in large amounts of oil. You'd walk right by Victoria's Secret and then suddenly have the scent of funnel cakes entering your nostrils.

Corpulence is such as "bad" word, but it kicks the ass of "thin," "healthy," or "slender" on any day of the week. 

The jeans whisperer

For me, buying jeans is not an amusing task. Generally, the waist is too tight, so I have to go up one size, but then the increased size makes my backside look flat and there are extra pieces of fabric around my upper legs. I can't wear junior sizes because of my "shapely hips," but jeans for adult females are never really cute and/or sexy. I don't have the patience to try on tons of sizes, washes, and fits. Buying a pair of jeans should not be complicated. We're talking about a fashion item that was created in the late 1800s and popularized in the 1950s. Finding the right pair should not be this challenging.

A few months ago, I succumbed to a pair of Faded Glory jeans from Walmart. The shade of blue has already begun to fade and I'm sure that the jeans will face the same fate as my previous pair from Walmart: riveted button on the waist will eventually pop off (at an inconvenient time--as if there is ever a convenient time for a button fly to detach itself from your jeans) and bottom of jeans will be completely frayed. I'm just not up for the challenge of the jeans scavenger hunt.

Finding jeans for myself is frustrating and irritating; the concept of someone else buying them for me, without me trying them on, seems like a impossible task. Somehow John surmounted the impossible.

On Christmas morning, he bestowed a Gap bag upon me... the man never wraps gifts! Inside of the bag was a pair of size 14 "curvy" jeans. These jeans are amazing and fit perfectly. The denim is a dark wash and the bottoms lightly flare out. It doesn't seem like a big accomplishment, but this man has attained the holy grail of husbandly tasks. The whole situation makes me think of a Walt Disney quote (no, I do not walk around with tons of quotes in my head, but I saw this in a Hallmark store today and I have heard this quote a few times before): "It's kind of fun to do the impossible."