It's Sew On... Recap Friday!!!

Project Runway is back!!!

This show takes me back to my 2nd year in college, crushing on Austin Scarlet, Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and make your own Whole Food Salads.

This season starts with Heidi and Tim Gun sitting in what sounds like the studio bathroom talking about this year’s AWESOME designers. Seriously, the acoustics remind me of when I was 8 and would go into my parent’s bathroom and record myself singing Disney and Starlight Express songs. We hear from Heidi that Andy, “Is Asian and (wait for surprise eyes) cool!” Who knew Asians were so cool right now? Mondo has those Bad Ass Ran Ban glasses I wanted as sun glasses but he wears them all day a normal glasses, so he must be awesome. Plus Tim calls him “adorable” and I totally agree. McKell, who has dreadlocks and is from Utah, pronounces her name “McCow”. Does a “McCow” have a regional accent??? Casanova has a GIANT mouth and as annoying as his name is, it is actually his last name. Wash. Plus he says, “Will New York eat me, or will I eat New York.” I’m going to say you will eat it… and all the burrows. Seriously, his mouth enters the room five minutes before the rest of his face. Jason comes wearing a bowler hat for intimidation, you know “like gladiators or how Native Americans wore Mohawks”. (His words not mine.) April will make tea party dresses, but only if they are gnarly tea parties.

Eventually everyone gathers at Lincoln Center and out walks Heidi and Tim. Heidi’s legs are still amazing, but I like it when her hair is a little more blond. Tim is as dashing as ever. (I love Tim Gun. He would be my pick be my dad after my actual dad and Mack Brown. Close third.) They announce that because there are 17 designer here (to quote Madonna from League of Their Own) “some of yous gonna have to go home.” One, two, ten??? They won’t know till after the runway.

First Challenge!!! Everyone open your suitcases and pick out a piece of clothing to incorporate in your design, but (there is always a but) pass that item to your right. That’s right you get 5 hours to make something with the butt ugly (fill in the blank) clothing item of your competitor! Have fun! Oh, and Casanova didn’t seem to understand that “incorporate into your design” meant “ tear, rip, cut, and completely render un-wearable to anyone besides a size 0 model” because he selected his 1070$ Dolce and Gabanna olive pants. Damn that language barrier.

Workroom Time!!! The workroom looks like every other season except the sewing room looks like a prison that has been wall papered in grey paint swatches from Sherman Williams. We learn more about the designers like Valerie was poor growing up and had to shop at Wienners. (I feel like Wienners has come up on this show before… did Santino have to go there as a kid??? I can’t remember…) Also Michael says he will be out of his element working with fabrics instead of knits, but then says, “if you are a designer you should know how to work with all fabrics” when Peach starts hating on the orange scarf he gave to her for the challenge that kept falling apart.

Tim Comes to Visit!!! Jason has a “fashion corset”. Yeah, it’s a corset he wears over his clothes with pins, thread, and scissors all sticking to it. I feel like he shouldn’t run… or wear it outside.

Model time!!! Jason is upset because his model has giant knockers. I mean he makes it seem like this girl is walking down the streets of New York with basketballs taped to her chest. In reality she might… might have a B cup and it’s probably only because she’s about to start her period. I mean I went to middle school with girls who have bigger ta tas than this chick. McKell wants her model to have a “girly Mohawk”. (But do those intimidate like a gladiator? I think not.) Michael wants makeup that is “whimsical but not drag queen.” (Such a fine line.) Kristen forgot that she actually has to dress her model until 15 minutes before the runway show. Casanova’s model wasn’t even kinda dressed when Tim called time and told everyone to head to the runway. And Jason (with his corset, tool belt, Bat Cave of goodies tied to his torso) didn’t have time or supplies to finish his dress and he his walking out the door while stapling his model into his outfit.

Runway Show!!!

Roll Call…
Heidi (with new darker hair)
Michael (Botox Baby)
Nina (I’d go lesbian)
Selma Blair??? (Does anyone else think Selma Blair fashion and think this…)

(Because I do...)


AJ: Hot Topic prom dress with a foil bow.


Andy: This looks like the bastard child of Asian Robin Hood and an eclectic art teacher.


April: This finishing is horrible. the hem is wonky and there are strings hanging down. As for the actual design... I feel like those white strings look like worms, and she said earlier she was inspired by morgues, so maybe hangy strings are a part of her design aesthetic.


Casanova: Blake Lively + Tarzan + my dish towels


Christopher: I like this. It's a litte boring and safe and I wish it was longer, but it's pretty. Plus the collar looks like Kumomoto Oyster Shells. (mmmmmm.... oysters....)


Gretchen: (WINNER) Very pretty. The back is very delicate and girly and the models hair and makeup was perfect. I agree with the judges.


Ivy: The judges hated this and almost sent Ivy packing. I don't love it, but I don't hate it. They were upset because she made pants out of pants. I get that, but they do look like brand new pants. The top is ridiculous, and so are the big hoop ear rings. Again, I didn't hate it and I'm glad they let her stay because I feel like she is better than this.


Jason: I wrote in my notes, "Friar Tuck wannaby". Heidi says it looks like the cape they put around you when you are getting your hair done. Either way... it's not a good look.


Kristen: First I had to remind myself who Kristen was which is never a good thing if you're on reality TV. The dress... meh. I believe it was made from Andy's kilt and I would have rather seen Andy wear it as a kilt. The fabric looks heavy, almost like it was originally a picnic blanket and it started raining so she wrapped herself in it and ran to the car... yeah something like that.


McKell: (LOOSER) I don't 100% agree with the judges on this one. The dress is... okay. I don't like the wings on her shoulders, but I like the concept and except for maybe a little too much side boob action it seems to be constructed well. I do agree with the judges opinion that the styling is horrendous!!! What is up with that bag??? And why was everyone whispering how adorable it was when the model was on the runway??? And the "girly Mohawk" didn't work. It had its faults but I don't think she should have been sent home for styling issues.


Michael: He described his look as, "classy, elegant, and sophisticated." In reality it's a red top with no back paired with a short black faux leather skirt. Yup, classy.


Michael(2): I kinda love this. The frabic print it cool and modern and I love the shape. As the model started walking down the runway I too wondered, "Why is there a Native American belt buckle glued under her right boob?" Then she turned around and the back has a lot of beading detail that ties into the belt buckle. Could he just have left off the damn thing, yes... but I still like it.


Mondo: This is safe but cute. It has a vintage feel and reminds me of my Aunt's old kitchen and the avacodo green fridge she used to have. Plus I love the red clutch with it.


Nicholas: Gross. I hate this. This is bridesmaid dress from Hell. It is boring, made out of the worst fabric ever, and why does an evening gown need a built in purse??? I would put a gun in it and then ask someone to kill me for going out in public in that dress, or shoot the bride... whatever.


Peach: I wish designers would make their dresses just a little longer. This looks like a nice lunch or shower dress but it's a little to short. Of course then you turn around and there is a big bow of toile coming out your ass. Seriously, I looks like the veil Brides wear during their Bachelorette Party, but coming out her ass!!! Not the best look for Grandma's afternoon tea.


Sarah: Target 24.99$


Valerie: Monster dress??? Does anyone else see "boob cup" eyes and a mouth sticking its tongue out???


Come back every Friday for my Project Runway recap. Let me know what you think!

Top Grudges of All Time...

Todays grudge is "First Grade Monster".

Karen was in my first grade class and was a complete terror. She was already a foot taller than everyone else in the class and her three favorite things to do were push, punch, and kick. I mean this girl had absolutely no social graces at all. For a long time I just felt sorry for her because she had no friends, but then I invited her to play tag at recess and she punched me in the arm and spat on my shoes. You would think that this would be the reason for the grudge but no. Bodily fluids I can take. I once saw a boy pee on the jungle gym and never told the teacher. What really annoyed me was when she got me in trouble for just going to the bathroom!!!

The bathroom in our Elementary school had about 6 small stalls and one large handicap stall at the end of the row. In first grade using the big handicap stall became the “cool thing to do”. This meant that during bathroom breaks almost all the small stalls would be open, but there would be a line of 6 year olds waiting for the handicap stall. I never saw the appeal in this. I would always go in one of the small stalls and that was that. Did I rebel because I wanted my fellow classmate to think I was cool and didn’t follow the trends? No. Was I scared to fall in the larger toilet? No. I didn’t line up for the Taj Mahal of urinating experiences because I was guilty. I just knew that as soon as I went into that roomy stall some poor handicap, homeless, “I have only one leg” child would wonder into the bathroom and think I was a total Ass Hole for using her only handicap stall. The fact that we didn’t have any handicap kids in the school was completely beside the point. I knew it would happen to me. Even in first grade I was “that girl”.

What happened was one day our teacher figured out why it was taking her girls so long in the bathroom and told us no one was allowed to use the big stall. Karen decided that I was the one who told on all of them because I was the only one that didn’t use said stall. So, to get her revenge, she kicked me in my legs causing me to back up through the bathroom until I was in the handicap stall and then closed the door and wouldn’t let me out. I pounded and yelled for a bit, but when I figured out she wasn’t moving her big fat ass, I decided I might as well pee. I pulled down my leggings (the only type of pants I wore) and used the awesome, handicap toilet. While I was peeing in bliss, Karen (that bitch) ran outside and told my teacher I was using the big bathroom!!!

I was a total kiss ass in first grade and when my teacher started to chastise me, I lost it. I cried and tried to explain what had really happened but she didn’t want to hear me. We all walked back to our classroom at the end of the hall and right then and there I vowed my revenge. I would not let Karen get away with this injustice. I never made her eat paste or convinced her her parents were getting a divorce (like I tried) but karma is a bitch and I know someday someone will kick her into a toilet stall… or worse…

Come back next week for more “All Time Top Grudges”!

The Real Housebears of New Hampshire

So, I had a long post about 80% done and ready to go, and then I started reading it and I decided it wasn't really all that funny so I erased it. I tried to make fashion puns and interpret weird trends from all the places I grew up, but it was just too messy. To much information for the length I wanted it to be. In all actuality I think I'm just really excited for the return of Project Runway on Thursday. (Tune in here on Friday for my recap and predictions.)

After I killed my post about humorous boxer shorts under see through track pants in Alabama, I came upon a really funny news story from New Hampshire I'd like to tell you about.

Meet Da Bear #1


He enjoys sleeping during the winter, having non "face to face" bear sex, and breaking into New Hampshire homes. He did the latter yesterday while a family was out (tapping mapple surup trees???). He strolled through an open backdoor, ate some pears and grapes, and was about to move on to the porridge and beds when he heard the garage door opening. Scared he turned to leave, but not before he saw this...

Meet Da Bear #2



Beer #1 did what any self respecting black bear would do and rescued the poor stuffed prisoner from the evil human family.

Human family watched the bear leave their back yard with Bear #2 held gingerly in his mouth.

And they lived happily ever after in bear world...

Dream Jobs... Please Tell Me How to Get These...

Before I get to enchanting you with my regular post today, I wanted to say thank you for all the wonderful support of my little blog. Also, 10 followers in 10 posts!!! Yeah, pretty good start I’d say. Let’s keep this growth rate going!!! Seriously though, thank ya’ll so much for all the comments and nice words. They make me very happy, and make me think that this “showing people what you write” thing isn’t all that bad.

On to today’s post…

Dream Jobs…

I have already blogged that my degree major is the redheaded, stepchild of the history department, so it should come to no surprise that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

When I was a wee little Lemon I had monumental hopes and dreams about my future as an Illustrator/Astronomer. Evidently my art skills peaked about when my handwriting skills peaked, 4th grade. Up until 4th grade I was the go to gal for Art Awards at the end of the school year and cute “elementary school” looking frogs and Picasso knockoffs. Then I hit middle school and stopped taking art, and my sister quickly became the artistically gifted member of the family. Whatever she paints me lemons, so I don’t really hold a grudge. Astronomer died as a future career in middle school when I realized that although they can make up to 100 dollars and hour (yes, I looked that up when I was 10) they also have to go to school for like… ever!!!

Then as I got older and wiser I decided, after my near date with death during Hurricane Fran, I would like to be a meteorologist. This stuck for a long time. I even took GMO (Geology, Meteorology, and Oceanography) my senior year of high school. Yes it was rocks for jocks, but whatev… I memorized 75 different minerals and rocks, and made a weather diary I still have today. I applied to two colleges because of my meteorology dream. Then right before it was time to pick a school, I got completely freaked out and was all, “Wooh… that’s a lot of math. Maybe this isn’t the right thing for me considering I barely passed Algebra II and PreCal was all Greek to me”.

Fashion!!! I love clothes!!! Why not become a fashion design major??? (forehead smack) It took me a semester of memorizing 120 different fabrics to remember I hate stupid, shallow bitches, so maybe this isn’t the right place for me either… (Plus in my first lab where we got to burn and rip holes in different fabrics to learn more about them, the kinda good looking guy who sat across from me went to the same Church Camp as I did, and I’m pretty sure he is gay and a cheerleader… yeah… he was totally awkward because he thought I would be totally awkward.. which I was, but not because he’s gay, but just because I’m a totally awkward person…) Enter American Studies and the beginning of the end to it ever being easy to get a job doing something that might mildly interest me.

I hate when you tell people you don’t know what you want to do and they immediately ask, “Well what do you like to do?” Really Ass Hole… you think I’ve haven’t tried that already? You think I haven’t searched Craigslist, CareerBuilder, and HotJobs for “sit on your ass, drink beer, and be paid 50,000 dollars a year” job. Because trust me they don’t exists. And FU for making me think about a career in lazy and thus making me sad about my life.

Dream Jobs…

Anthony Bourdain Stylist: First of all I think we could be friends. Why??? I saw that episode where they were filming in Beirut when the bombs started falling and I think I would have lost my shit. Which all of them did until they held up in that hotel on the hill and the bombs weren’t quite so close. And then they all when into “reflection” mode. I could do this. I can be completely freaked out and then write amazingly emo journal entries. (Trust me I have them on a shelf in my bedroom.) Anthony doesn’t do cocaine anymore. Cocaine freaks the Hell out of me. I could help him stay clean. Lastly they went to the restaurant where nachos were invented in Mexico!!! I mean I should be a part of any TV show that goes there. (Oh, and why they were experiencing the awesome history del nacho, a camera man hit his head and passed out and had to be taken to the ER. WFT Camera Man!!??!!?? A: I’m not that clumsy. B: I would have at least rallied together a little bit better than that looser.)
Why become his stylist…? Did I mention I have a semester of Fashion Design under my belt? Plus the man only wears black and grey. How hard could it be?

Hotel/Spa/3 Star Michelin Restaurant Critic: How awesome would it be to travel the world (on someone else’s dime) and only sleep, relax, and eat in the best of the best??? Now, don’t start the judging. I get that you should emerge yourself in local culture. Eat where the locals eat, sleep in homely hostels and B&Bs, blah, blah, blah. I get it. Been there. Done that. I’ve stayed in “hole in the wall” hostels, survived on bread and tomatoes (there are much more important things to buy in Amsterdam), and slept on trains. I’m ready for the good life. Four Seasons? Yes Please! Exotic mud wraps? Bring ‘em on! Sweetbreads from Manresa? OMG shove them down my throat!!! Then I write a nice little review, and bingo! CondeNast, feel free to ask me for an interview in the comment section below.

Personal Shopper (but only for LSU Friend and Davis Girl): 50 different cotton dresses from Target. Check. Red lipstick. Check. Done. Pay me please.

Dog Walker: I know a real job I could go to craigslist and get. But… (oh yeah there is a but) there are some stipulations.
1.Must pay at least 45,000$ (I’m a really good dog walker, honest)
2.Only cute dog owners may apply. ( I mean people with cute dogs, not cute people.)
3.Additional 10,000$ for picking up poo (plus additional 5,000 for Extra Large dog’s poo)

Blogger: …dream big… …dream big…

Divorce, Popsicle Wrappers, and "Why is it Always My Fault???"

Boyfriend went grocery shopping this week and bought me a copy of the magazine Real Simple. I don’t read Real Simple religiously, it’s no Metal Floss or US Weekly people, but I enjoy reading it at LSU Friend’s house or every now and then shelling out the 4 dollars for it. I like that it is large, has a lot of pictures, and because it’s not made from that shinny, glossy paper, it is easy to fold it over and crease the binding so it stays open on your lap. Sometimes they have parenting tips which I don’t enjoy, because of my lack (thank God) of off-spring, also if I have to read one more Midwestern housewife write in that “The Notebook changed my life because…” I might die a little on the inside. All in all, I would say it’s a solid B on my Magazine Ranking Scale.

The article that really jumped out at me was “Ten Ways To Make Your Marriage Divorce Proof”. Now I’m not married, but divorce scares the crap out of me, intrigued I read further…

1. Realize that if you can both agree on what constitutes a clean room, you can agree on anything.

FUCK!!!! My marriage is doomed before it has even begun.

Boyfriend and I have technically lived together for just over a year. Before that I lived in a 400 square foot efficiency. He practically lived with me for a year and a half and really did move all his things in when his lease was up and we were waiting to move into a larger place together. Before that, when we first started dating, I pretty much lived with him in his small efficiency. The point I’m trying to make is this, if we could live together in 400 square feet (without walls!!!) we can live together anywhere. Right?

Right?

Everybody that I know, knows I’m not the most clean person that ever walked the earth. Even I wouldn’t call myself a clean person, but I am defiantly not a dirty person. I think I used to be a dirty person. Growing up as a dirty person I would leave glasses in my room until they grew five layers of mold, I wouldn’t clean my bathroom tub until it looked like Schroder from Charlie Brown lived under the showerhead, and I’m pretty sure when I was moving out of my first apartment freshmen year of college there were five or six empty to half full beer cans under my bed.

I am 100% better at not being dirty. However I would classify myself as a messy person. Now being messy has nothing to do with being dirty. A messy person can make a mess and then clean it up with the proper wipes, brooms, and chemicals. I believe I am messy because I can’t spend 10 minutes sitting on the couch without making a mess. Seriously, I don’t know how it happens. I sit down to watch House reruns and an hour later… Poof! The living room looks like I haven’t cleaned in a month. I’ll stand up and somehow there are Popsicle wrappers everywhere, a ring of water on the table, four unfolded blankets, the futon cover is all messed and scrunched up, five magazines are laying about, and there is a pile of crumbs on the floor. I have no idea how all of this happened. No idea. Do I remember going to the fridge for Popsicles? No. Was I really cold and needed four different blankets and throws? No. And where did these F-ing crumbs come from??? I mean, come on, I only ate popsicles!!! And don’t get me started when boyfriend and I are both home on a Sunday. Multiply the previous mess by 5 hours, add some Scrabble tiles, breakfast taco bags, cereal bowls, and papers where Boyfriend has written down our dream travel arrangements and that’s just our living room.

Now I understand that living with someone is all about compromises. I could fill a whole blog with old roommate stories about missing spoons and takeout containers that were put on my bed, but compromises are so much more important when the person you live with is also the person you are going to spend the rest of your life with. Take old roomie, Davis Girl. I love Davis Girl. Not a lot of people are classifies by me as totally, awesome, and Bad Ass. She is. We lived together for 3 years. Thank God we both moved out into our own places when we did or we probably wouldn’t be friends today. I take that back. I would still think she is totally, awesome, and a Bad Ass (although a little neurotic and anal). She would HATE ME!!! Her dirt phobia and anal-ness greatly outweighed my slightly annoyed “you’re not my mom” attitude. What I’m trying to say is, anytime we got into a small minor argument and we started screaming at each other I knew I would survive because one day we would no longer be living together and I would not have to listen to her bitch about prewashing the dishes and lecture about how her dad made her clean everything in her house even the baseboards.

I can no longer dream like this. I love Boyfriend and I know that Boyfriend loves me, but when it comes to cleaning we (to say it nicely) get on each other’s nerves. Really, we annoy the shit out of one another. And there is no dreaming of the day when he moves out, because as much as I sometimes want to kick him when he brings up my cleaning my car, I don’t want him to move out. This is it. We’re in it for the long run.

I come from a family where Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings was made for cleaning. Cleaning our rooms, taking the crap that piles up on the stairs to our rooms, dusting and vacuuming, yard work… it was a part of our schedule. It was structure. Boyfriend came from a family with a “do it quick and fast everyday” and you won’t have to spend three hours on it later. Our family’s cleaning philosophies don’t exactly mesh well.

Me: (sitting on futon, eating popsicle, and watching family guy) I love you…

Boyfriend: (smoke coming out of ears, evil frown on face) Look at all of these shoes!!! Why do people ever have more than one pair of shoes??? Look at all these DVDs not in their cases!!! Can you not feel the sticky floors??? AHHH!!!!!

Me: Those are quite a few pairs of shoes. I think we own more than one pair because I can’t wear flip flops to work and in the winter my toes would get cold. Yes those are a number of DVDs not in their cases, but don’t worry, we are going to bed soon and one of those Arrested Development DVDs will go into the computer to watch. So there is one taken care of. Oh, and I didn’t want to wash the floor in case you wanted to play another game of Beer Pong tonight. (Yes we play Beer Pong on our vintage hardwood floors. Sorry Mom.)

Boyfriend: Well I just don’t understand why we (read you) can’t pick up after yourself more often.

Me: Why is it always my fault??? You’re the one with three pairs of flip flops by the door. And it wasn’t me watching Strange Brew and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Oh, and you left little hairs on the bathroom sink after you shaved last week that are still there!!!

Boyfriend: I didn’t say it was just you.

Me: You said “Well I just don’t understand why YOU can’t pick up after yourself more often”!!!

Boyfriend: I said “we”!!!

Me: You said, “you”!!!

Boyfriend: No I didn’t!!!

Me: Besides I’m planning on cleaning this Friday because I’m getting off work early.

Boyfriend: But that’s 3 days away!!!

Me: But I’ll knock it all out and then we won’t have to clean for like… forever…

Boyfriend: I’ll clean my hairs in the sink if you wipe the floors and it will be done in 5 minutes…

Me: Fine…
(Five minutes later…)

Boyfriend: Don’t you feel better.

Me: (sulking) Yes…

Boyfriend: You know this means my family’s cleaning style is superior, right.

Me: FU.

Boyfriend: I love you…


This happens about once a month.

A Little Story About a Hit Movie and My Traumatic Childhood...

It took me years to learn to ride a bike without training wheels. Why??? No, my parents weren’t evil a-holes who drank the days of my childhood away. They actually tried to teach me many times. I vividly remember my mom trying on the grass (maybe she thought it was my fear of falling on the pavement), and my dad tried a few times. The times with my dad were no better than the time (singular) when he attempted to teach me to drive in the high school parking lot. (Seriously Dad??? Who in their right mind decides that the first driving lesson should be “how to back up into a parking space”??? I mean, come on!!! I’m 25 and I still can’t do this.)

No, it wasn’t my parent’s horrible parenting skills. And, surprisingly enough, it wasn’t because my sister traumatized me, either. Why did I not learn to ride my bike without training wheels???

This guy…


More specifically when he made a movie about this guy…


That’s right. Mother F-ing ET. Steven Spielberg might have ruined my childhood. I saw that messed up movie when I was very young. I can’t tell you the plot, character names, nothing, but I remember that horrible scene when that little kid flies away in his bike with the little brown turd in the basket. OMG that scared me!!! I don’t remember how the bike started flying, but it did. And if I couldn’t remember how it started, what if I accidentally did that one action or flipped that “start fling now” switch on my bike without knowing it??? There was no way in Hell I was going to risk it. Therefore, I was destined to either never ride a bike (which really isn’t an option growing up in suburbia) or just never learning to ride without my training wheels. (Because in my head if I still had the training wheels I was safe. They were like suction cups that wouldn’t let my bike fly into outer space for no reason except to scare the crap out of me.)

The teasing and name calling came first from my older sister. She learned to ride her bike without training wheels in a weekend. (Yeah… she was that kid.) Sister decided that she wanted to surprise our father when he got back from his TDY (for you non-military people “his business trip”). So she got mom to teach her and help her… blah, blah, perfect child, blah. Dad came home, Sister triumphantly rode up and down our street, Dad cried out of pure joy and amazement… Isn’t his oldest child wonderful… (Okay maybe he didn’t cry, but you get the idea.)

Kindergarten is when it started for me. Evidently my mother subscribed to the parenting method of, “if it worked on one kid, it will work on her terrified little sister.”

“Little Lemon, Dad is going to be gone for a week. Why don’t you and I work on your biking skills…?”
“Oh, another TDY for Dad. Lemon, bring me your bike and I can help you get over your handicap…”
“Dad’s out for three day. SIT ON THIS MOTHER F-ING BIKE AND PEDDLE UNTIL I SAY STOP!!!! No, sweetheart I promise I won’t let go…”
Seriously, every time my dad stepped out of the house mom was pushing that damn bike on me like meth on a redneck from Missouri. But, I wouldn’t budge. There was no way I was going to risk my neck because of my renegade bike and not knowing where to locate, or how to turn off, the flying button.


Eventually one morning (I think I was in second grade or so) I woke up and decided I was being silly. I had never seen my sister fly away. Nor, had I seen any of the neighborhood kids, and we lived in England now so maybe bikes couldn’t fly in England. There must be some chemical in the sky, or maybe the Queen made a law, but I was pretty sure there could be no flying bikes in England.

I can’t remember where we were going, but it was early one morning and we were in nice clothes. I finished my breakfast. My mother was probably doing five things at once, so when I told her I was going to go ride my bike she didn’t look up or acknowledge me. The training wheels were already off my bike, from countless times my parents had tried to teach me. I wheeled the bike to the end of our short drive way, mounted the seat, put my foot to the peddles and rode off. I peddled to the end of the street slowly because I couldn’t figure out if it was safe to turn around on the bike or if I should get off and pick it up to face back the way I came. I’m a Bad Ass, so of course I turned all by myself. As I approached my house coming back my parents were standing outside. Both looked confused…

Looking back now even I confuse myself. ET scarred me for life. Because of one scene it took me years to ride a bike, but I love Jaws and I’m not scared of swimming in the ocean. Also, he directed Jurassic Park and I still have dinosaur nightmares…

Tongues, Jurassic Park, and Koala Fingerprints Cause My Brain to Hurt...

When I was growing up I had a subscription to World Magazine. World was National Geographic for kids, and the majority of the magazine focused on animals. 60% animal facts, 25% Egypt (because at some point in every kids life they want to be an Egyptologist), 10% pollution problems, and 5% “get your parents to subscribe to National Geographic”. I read a fact in World that I have never forgotten. The tongue of a Blue Whale weights more than a fully grown, male, African Elephant. This still baffles me. How can a whale be that big??? If the tongue is an Elephant then the heart is like 50 Hippos and the eyes are 4 Ligers each.

It’s kinda like in Jurassic Park when Alan Grant is trying to explain just how much time has passed since the baby Velociraptor he dug up in Montana had died. He explains it like this, humans have been around for 80,000 years (well some form of humans or apes standing upright). If you took the 80,000 years humans have been on this earth and condensed them down to just one day that tiny little fossilized Raptor baby was still over 3000 YEARS OLD!!! Facts like this make my brain hurt. I can’t imagine that much time, and I can’t imagine having an elephant for a tongue.

More ridiculous animal facts…

*Cows have regional accents. (Yes, cows from Texas say “Moooya’ll” while cows from Minnesota say, “don’tchamoooooooknow?”)

*Bonobos (which are insanely cute mini chimpanzees) are the only other ape, besides humans, to engage in oral sex, tongues kissing, and “face to face genital sex”. (WFT??? Oral sex, okay I get it. The little Bonobos are trying to have fun without risking a whole herd of even smaller Bonobos. Tongue kissing? Now I don’t know about you, but when I read this I immediately thought of these little chimps in little berets, holding little French flags. So f-ing cute. But “face to face genital sex”... in my head I heard, “and then the male Bonobo tenderly brushes a piece of hair off of his Bonobo wife’s face. (Of course they were married earlier in the Church of Bonobo and the Sacred Heart.) Their eyes meet, and she bats her tiny Bonobo lashes at her muscular Bonobo husband. They then embrace and make sweet, sweet Bonobo love.” Now what I really want to know is if they always have tender, passionate “face to face” love making or sometimes does Mr. Bonobo come home from a hard day of pulling bugs from a log with a stick and just want to pound Mrs. Bonobo from behind as she peels fruit for the evening meal?)

*The Poison Arrow Frog has enough poison to kill 2,200 people. (Or 4,400 children… sweet tender children…)

*Montana Mountain Goats will butt heads so hard their hooves fall off. (…. ….. wa…. ma… so…. WHAT??????..... This can’t be right. Please imagine this.)
Goat Number 1: "My head is starting to hurt, but I’m going to keep ramming you with it because that is one fine looking lady goat over there and I want to have non “face to face” intercourse with her." RAAAAMMMM!!!!(really hard)
Goat Number 2: "Ouch. That hurt. No stop. Time out. That like really hurt… Am I bleeding? Why is there blood on my legs? Wait… seriously time out! WHERE ARE MY HOOVES????"

*Fingerprints of Koala Bears are virtually indistinguishable from Human fingerprints. (I feel CSI writers have yet to utilize this enough in their scripts. Imagine this… In Vegas multiple prostitutes are killed by a mystery man. During the same night there is a mass breakout in the local zoo and 50 Koalas are missing in the biggest Koala breakout in history. The Evil Vegas Drug Lord has a top secret bunker in the desert to teach Koalas to let their natural killer instincts take over. The Koalas learn to cruse the strip and when a prostitute waves them over, something switches on in the newly trained Koala brain. Something that says kill!!!! And then the CSIs don't know it’s an evil group of Drug Lord Koala’s until they put one of their own out on the streets to pretend to be a prostitute. Awesome! I would totally watch that show.)

*Rabbits love licorice. (Is this like Tigers hate cinnamon?)

*A Hippo can run faster than a man. (But can they drive a car? Because if they can’t then it is really no biggie that they can run fast because you could always just get in a car and drive past them pointing and calling them a looser.)

*A purring cat isn’t always content. Cats often purr when they are in pain. (Again, What the fuck??? Why would an animal make the same noise to describe such opposite emotions? This is like me smiling and laughing because I am on a Farris Wheel because Farris Wheels are fun and remind me of being a happy go lucky child. A crazy meth head who is also a sadistic rapist sees me and kidnaps me and ties me up and cuts me and beats me and rapes me and what do I do, smile and laugh. I will never look at my parent’s, evidently retarded, cats in the same way ever again.

*Rhinos are in the same family as horses and are thought to have inspired the unicorn myth. (Really? This...

equals this...)


*The very first bomb dropped by the Allies on Berlin during WWII killed the only Elephant in the Berlin Zoo. (The only Nazi Elephant…)

*A donkey will sink in quicksand but a mule won’t. (Who did this test??? Was it farmer Joe Bob in Mississippi? “I’ve got this quicksand, and a mule. Oh and I have a donkey… what to do? What to do???")

*A Killer Whale kills sharks by torpedoing up into the sharks stomach from the underneath causing the shark to explode. (I know I’m getting redundant, but WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK????)
A: I really feel bad for the shark because I feel that once you are large enough to be a satisfying meal for a Killer Whale you are pretty convinced you are at the top of the food chain, so SURPRISE DUMMIE SHARK!!!
B: Why wasn’t this ever a part of the Shamu Show at Sea World???
C: “Causing the shark to explode”!!!!!! Isn’t there a better way to say this? A more scientific way? A more humane way? This has got to be a pretty crappy way to go. This and having your hooves fall off in battle.

Clarksville! (we used to be black, but now we're just gay for Satan)

Clarksville

As many of you know, Boyfriend and I recently moved to a new home in Clarksville. I thought I would write a nice post about my new neighborhood.

This is Clarksville…


These are Clarksville’s original residents...

(Okay so these aren't the exact slaves that lived on my street, but you get the idea...)

That’s right kids! My neighborhood used to be the plantation and slave quarters of Governor Elisha M Pease. (Yes, girly name. I know.) Interesting facts about Elisha.. (Manners and a respect for Texas Governors would say I should call him Governor Pease, but Elisha just rolls off the tongue and for some reason I have yet to spell Governor correct. Why are there two Rs???).. Anyway, Elisha was from Enfield, Massachusetts. Enfield Rd is the northern border of Clarksville. He was the fifth and the thirteenth governor of our great state. And he owned a large plantation in West Austin! After the Civil War and after Elisha’s slaves were emancipated he set aside a large area of land for his newly freed “employees” to live so they would keep working for him. In 1871 Charles Clark, a freeman, established the African American community of Clarksville. It was the first freeman’s town west of the Mississippi. You can still see Charles’ home on West 10th street. Wow! Austin is such a progressive city!

Yeah… not so much…

In the early 1900s the city of Austin decided that the Black residents of Clarksville had it too good.
“Look you guys, this is prime real-estate, and the white people are beginning to feel cramped downtown, and we’re going to have to start getting these streets ready for the hipster invasion in about 80 years… so… well… you’ve got to go. Like now.”
That was pretty much how the notice to the Black community started. It finished like this,
“YOU ARE FOREVER BANNED TO THE EASTSIDE!!! Oh, you don’t want to move? Well we’re just going to cut off your water, you will never get electricity, and I hope you like dirt roads…”
Most of the community moved, but a few stayed and used kerosene lamps and got their water from Town Lake (now Lady Bird Lake) until the 1970s.

Guess who didn’t want to live in an old black neighborhood. White people! So in the 1950s the immigrants moved in. Anthony Colanetta opened Anthony’s Laundry. (Which is still there and has been a savor since the washer has been broken at my place. Thanks Anthony!) He also leased the place next door to Hylton Nau. I have already written about my love for Nau Pharmacy’s and their breakfast tacos, but the whole place is super awesome. Chocolate Malts and Shakes, funky toys, and the best candy counter in town! In 1979 Craig Weller and Mark Skyles open Clarksville Natural Grocery. As small grocery story which actually isn’t crazy overpriced. A year later they teamed up with John Macky and opened the first Whole Foods. Whole Food and its national offices are within walking distance of Clarksville and my new home.

(Inside Nau's Pharmacy)


(Whole Foods on 6th and Lamar)

The population is a little different now. Over priced student apartments line Enfield because of the very popular UT bus route that drives that road. Hippies still live in the small houses covered in ivy with beads hanging on the porch. Doctors, Lawyers, and their Mercedes driving wives tore down the other small homes to build large homes in all different types of architecture. Almost every home has a cat that lazily sleep on the fount step in the evening, and a dog they walk in the morning.

Clarksville was just recently voted One of the Great Neighborhoods in America because of the history and it’s people who want to keep it local. I agree. I love walking to Nau’s on a Sunday morning to sit in the diner and read the paper and magazines while listening to the local chatter. I can’t wait to take “future dog owned by myself and boyfriend” to the dog park across 10th street. We walk to Cheepos to buy used DVDs and video games. Our cactus friends are getting repotted and new soil this weekend with goods from Shedd Nursery. Boyfriend and I take a walk usually every night and here are some photos from our walk yesterday.


(motitos from the original Z Tajas in Clarksville)




("Art" outside Cheepos)


(The Castle... did I tell you we have a Castle...)


(The downtown view from the top of the hill.)

more to come soon...

How I Manipulated my Best Friend into Becoming My Best Friend...

This story takes me back...

Remember a few days back when I posted the statistic that I moved homes every 1.8 years of my life. (I say statistic, but just like proof reading, math way never my strong point and I never actually took a statistic class, so really I’m just guessing that 1.8 years is a statistic. Wow.. math and English are not my fortes... how did I ever graduate college???) Anyway, all this moving does take a toll on a kid's personal life. By the time we moved to San Antonio I was a pro at starting school, making friendships, and finding a best friend because in a few short months I would need a shoulder to cry on when we found out where we would be off to next. I devised a system. I tested the system. The system worked*. Notice the system starts at “starting school”. We moved to San Antonio in May. School started the end of August. I have always done things my way and when I’m good and ready. My system for making friends would start in August when I started 7th grade at Stinson Middle School and not a moment sooner. I would spend the summer playing Lego's, making magazine collages, and playing on the Internet. I am also a person who enjoys being by herself. The summer was going to be so much fun! Yeah… then my mother kicked me out. She demanded I make friends with the other neighborhood kids. I panicked! These “other kids” we NOT part of my system. Who even knows if they are really kids??? Maybe they are aliens or Martians??? Who was my mother to throw me to the dogs. I just knew I would be eaten alive.

Okay, I know I’m exaggerating. In all reality I knew those kids weren’t from Mars. I was just scared shitless of having to make friends in front of my sister at the neighborhood pool. Sister is older, prettier, and totally had boobs. I shaved my eye brows right down the middle, had a one piece swimsuit from Limited Too, and didn’t know how to dive. On top of everything, I am the most awkward person I know at 25, wanna guess how awkward I was at 12??? I am shuttering just thinking about myself back then. I am awkward. Making friends is awkward. How was I suppose to do this in front of my very non-awkward, didn’t look like a native American, boob having sister???

I made friends and it was one of the most fun summers of my childhood. I hate it when parents are right.

By the time school started in the fall I had a few friends and some of them were even in my grade. I would know people on the first day of school! As much as this excited me, I knew I couldn’t let these kids interfere with my plan, with my system. Yeah they were great for the summer, but it was school time now. I had to stop playing with the fluff that was my summer gang and get down to the goods, a real best friend.

I spotted Best Friend on the first day of school. The good thing about being in mostly advanced classes is that the same kids are usually in every class. Best Friend was in all the honors classes I was ( English, science, and Texas History) along with taking Spanish and she was in Super Honors, Brainier Than You, Will Someone Compare us to Einstein Already math (AKA Algebra 1). I had found my new best friend. Now I just had to jump a few hurdles and get her to realize how fucking awesome I am!!!

Hurdle Number 1: Other friends. Other friends is always the hardest hurdle. They have known target friend longer, they have inside jokes, they are always weary of outsiders trying to prey on their friend. I must terminate all of them. You can’t just try to jump right into the being best friends with their best friend. They will not trust you. And 12 year old girls only like what their friends like. Therefore friends must like me. How do you get a group of 12 year old 7th grade girls to think you are the best thing since those little fake pets that lived inside your key chains… (What were those called Tamogachies? Tomupuchis? Something like that…) Become friends with boys, duh. I did this two ways. First, I became friends with President Boy. He was new to the school as well. He was in all our classes and had quickly made friends with “boyfriends” of the girls I needed to infiltrate. He was cute and funny, and fit perfectly into my plan. With his help I became one of the large group. (the large group is the group made out of the girls who surrounded my future Best Friend and the boys they “dated”) Secondly, who knew listening to my mother (okay being forced at gun point by my mother) to make friends during the summer would help in my evil, master plan of getting Best Friend, but having neighborhood friends proved to help me immensely. Who knew that neighborhood boy N was considered quite the hottie, and just being in his presence would spark an interest in me with the group of girls I needed to befriend.
“You know N Boy?”
“Sure we go way back” (way back to May of that year. A whole 2.5 months.)
“Wow… And he would hang out at your house?”
“Sure, for hours…” (more like he would ring the bell in a group on ten other neighborhood kids and we would all walk to the pool)
“Wanna sit with us at lunch?”
“Um… okay. I think I can do that.” (I’M SO IN!!! The lunchroom invite is like gold in Middle School. Once I got that invite, I had that group of girls just where I wanted them.)
“Muuuuhahahahaha” (Evil laugh)
“Why are you making weird noises?”
“Oh, um… just something caught in my throat… Sorry. (Fuck, Lemon, stop being weird! Quick say something cool…) Have you guys heard about that Titanic movie coming out??”

Hurdle Number 2: Making Best Friend realize I’m the coolest cat in the bunch. Now I’m not trying to toot my own horn or sound conceded, but I think I’m a pretty cool chick. Amateurs would jump right in, talking and insinuating their awesomeness to Best Friend. Huge mistake. One, this would alienate the group of friends I just spent a month trying to infiltrate. And two, I was in Middle school. In Middle school being your own person and all Rico Swave is suicide. The whole point of middle school is to get out of middle school. You can spend all the time you want in high school trying to be different and quirky. In middle school everyone is just trying to survive by blending in. This is where getting into Best Friend’s mind can be tricky. (If only I could break into layers of her dreams and plant an idea in her mind that I would make the perfect best friend… But alas we are in the time of Romeo and Juliet Leo not modern day Leo and that movie hasn’t been made, yet. Bummer.)

Likes, Dislikes, and Background information is crucial. Best Friend likes dancing, gel pens, K Swizz kicks. Best Friend hates mean boys, country music, and using a whole page of paper and still not having the answer to that IMPOSSIBLE algebra problem. Easy and Easier. Done and totally done”ier”. I like dancing, but I’m awkward and therefore you are so much better and could teach me. (Which sadly is true.) I FUCKING LOVE GEL PENS!!! (true. I still do.) They didn’t have K-Swizz tennis shoes in Alabama and honestly they might be the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen in my life. Seriously they disgust me. Now notice what I did here… First I complemented her because I think dancing is cool and I could learn from her. Secondly we both have a deep love for gel pens, especially the purple glittery ones. Lastly, as much as I look up to her dancing skills, and we have a similar writing utensil passion, I am my own person and don’t want to be just like her. I am different from all her K-Swizz loving minions. She could learn a little something from me. The exact same formula works for her dislikes. She hates mean boys.. “OMG! I hate mean boys, too! What a coincidence!” She doesn’t like country music… “Hey country music isn’t that bad maybe I could let you listen to some of my favorites.” She despises using a whole page of paper and still not having the answer to that IMPOSSIBLE algebra problem… “Hey, don’t feel too bad. I’m practically retarded when it comes to math. Also the answer is always 64.” This strategy along with some common background i.e. military families, older siblings, and deep passion for stickers was all I needed to become top dog on the friend wagon.

Hurdle Number 3: Getting Best Friend to admit I’m her best friend. A 7th grade girl’s mind revolves around one thing and one thing only, boys. The final piece to Best Friend’s heart is boys. Now this is when some people might make a mistake and want to bond over their mutual love of Hanson or Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Amateurs, all of them. While bonding over a mutual infatuation is an easy fix, that is not the way to hook a lifelong best friend. I got that best friend status only when I thought the complete opposite boys were the cutest. Middle school girls are shallow and self conscience, yes even Best Friend and me, and do not want any competition from another female… friends included. This amazingly genius idea, I have to admit, wasn’t mine. It happened completely by accident. She has horrible taste in boys**. I didn’t even have to pretend not to like any of her boyfriends because they were all creeps and kinda full of themselves. And, I never had to pretend I liked the older brother from Home Improvement more than super hunk JTT, because I really did think the older dude was cuter. (Until he did that slicked back ponytail, shave the side of your head look.) We were total best friend soul mates.
“Lemon you are one spectacularly bad ass chick, and you totally understand me. We should be best friends, and do you want to sleep over this weekend?”
“Wow! You want me to sleep over? And best friends? Are you sure… This is totally unexpected…”


*The only time the system didn't work was when we lived in Alabama for 10 months. People in Alabama, even 11 year old girls, are FUCKING INSANE and the system just couldn't handle the crazy racism and "southern belle" thing.

**This statement has applied to almost every boyfriend Best Friend has ever had, and she’s had a whole bunch. I’m not saying she’s slut or anything, but why would I be best friends with an ugly girl. The only exception to this rule is Best Friend’s Fiancé. He’s totally a keeper, and the only boyfriend of hers I’ve ever really liked.

I really am trying...

It has been brought to my attention by a few readers that my proof reading isn’t exactly on par. I really have no excuse, but I beg you to stay with me. I have been writing for quite some time, but I have always been apprehensive (read, downright nervous as Hell) to let people read my writing. For four years boyfriend has been begging me to let him read my work. I’ve gone back and looked through all the stories I’ve blogged and I will repost them in their new, shinny, no mistake form very soon. I am going to make a conscience decision to wait and let boyfriend read everything before I post it. Believe it or not I do proof read and reread and then reread again before I post. It’s just never been my forte.

That being said, I love this so much!!! I’ve had more fun in the last few days than I’ve had in a long time. I forgot how much I like to write. It’s fun to have a hobby you look forward to and that other people appreciate. Thank you all so much for the feedback and nice comments here, on Facebook, and in texts. It really makes my day.

Back to the usual posts later today or tomorrow…

Before I go, here are some oyster photos from dinner last night. Boyfriend and I had an amazing meal at one of our new favorite restaurants, Perlas. With the same owners as Lamberts and investors as La Condesa, you can't go wrong with this oyster and sea food place on South Congress. (Sorry the pictures are dark. Stupid old iPhone doesn't have a flash.)

This Would Never Happen on House Hunters...

True Story...

I just moved into a new house. I could write blog after blog about moving. I'm 25 years old and I've moved 14 times. That means that during my quarter of a century on this planet I have averaged a move to a new home once every 1.8 years.

Moving... sucks.

That being said, the one part about moving I like is looking at place after place and then finally finding that perfect home.

Looking for houses... fun.

This is a true story about looking for a perfect new home for boyfriend and I. Now boyfriend, as much as I love him and he is a wonderful person, I kinda want to punch him 80% of the time during the whole moving process. Luckily, just over four years ago LSU Friend came into my life. Our friendship revolves around alcohol, swimming holes, and moving. She has always been there for me during my moves, and I think I have been there for her as well. This is the story of LSU friend and I looking the perfect apartment in Terrytown.

List of Things Boyfriend and I wanted in a New Home
1. Central Austin (to us this means 78704 on the Mopac side, Clarksville, or Terrytown)
2. Large dog friendly (we want to get a Great Dane)
3. Character (we want a cute house)
4. At least 700 sq ft
5. Washer/Dryer
6. Yard

This whole crazy affair started because I saw a promising ad on Craigslist for a one bedroom on Enfield in out price range, big dogs good. I called. I introduced myself and Craigslist Guy says, "Yeah we can totally check out that apartment you saw on line, but I just found out that this other place came availiable today and it's the best place in Terrytown for the money." In fact Craigslist Guy says this at least two more times during the four minute phone call. "The best place." "You'll love it." "They never become available." So on and so on. LSU Friend and I excitedly get in the car and meet him that afternoon.

Strike Number One: Craigslist Guy is an apartment locator. I hate apartment locators. I don't have luck with them. They only take you to large complexes. They don't listen. They just want you to live where they can get the best pay. I just have absolutely no patients for them. Blah... I turn to LSU girl and give her the dagger "somehow this is all your fault" eyes, but she is already stepping out of the car and extending her hand.

Strike Number Two: OMFG!!!! I just realized we are at the small complex off Enfield and Exposition where my friend Ford lives. This is where Ford sleeps, eats, bathes, and... I don't know... knits when he isn't at his job. What does Ford do??? He's a freaking realtor and apartment locator because evidently my life is turning into a crappy sitcom!!! Laugh track in all. Now, not only did I not call him and let him know I was moving because I think his profession is kinda shitty. Not only did I go behind his back and use some random Craigslist Guy to find me a home. I'm going to end up living here and it will all come out that I'm a bad friend and a horrible person. I am thinking this because honestly I have already decided that we will live here. Why? Because Craigslist Guy has assured me that it's the greatest place in God's whole Terrytown Kingdom.

Strike Number Three: Apartment Manager is wearing jort cut offs. (And not ironically.)

Dispite my annoyance with Craigslist Guy, my guilt that Ford will walk around the corner at any moment and catch me cheating on him with another apartment locator, and the jort situation, LSU friend and I are still excited to see the place. It's in the corner and we all walk past a very cute little pool and courtyard on our way to go see it. While we are walking Apartment Manager is telling me that the girl who lives their just put in her notice of vacancy that morning. She is breaking the lease to buy a house and I am told numerous time by Craigslist Guy and Apartment Manager that it is my lucky day and this place will be gone by tomorrow. AWESOME!!! I'm so excited to see it. LSU friend is excited. We are all on agreement this must me my lucky day. By now we have safely walked the 50 feet past the pool and made it to the "this is the best day of your life, you're going to crap yourself when you see this, it's kinda like you won the lottery, you're welcome from God" apartment.

Door opens.

5 seconds later: We all step in and allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness because all the blinds and curtains are pulled shut.
10 seconds later: Craigslist guy finally finds the light, which only illuminates a small standing lamp in the far corner. It's still very dim in "the most bad ass apartment ever", but we are starting to see again.
11 seconds later: "What is that?" I ask in the general direction of Apartment Manager while I point to a large pile of... something in the middle of the living room floor.
14 seconds later: "Is it dog food?" Craigslist Guy inquires, ear brows raising.
15 seconds later: "Um, more did that dog have an accendent? A very large accident? And where is the dog then?" I'm starting to get a little creeped out.
20 seconds later: We all move towards the mystery pile.
22 seconds later: "Oh My God! I'm going to throw up!!!" LSU Friend screams and runs out the door.
23 seconds later: Craigslist Guy turns to make sure LSU Friend is okay, and I finally get close enough to see what exactly is making up this platter size pile in the middle of this girl's apartment.

Cockroaches. Dead Cockroaches. All swept together in a nice neat pile in the middle of the living room floor. Estimation 70 to 80 dead cockroaches.

yeah...

70 TO 80 DEAD COCKROACHES!!!!!!!

Now, I don't exactly think I'm a squeamish girl. I like to fish, and when I fish I hook and unhook anything I catch. My freshmen year of college I let my then boyfriend keep his pet snakes in my house and I actually grew very fond of them. Having the snakes meant I also kept dead mice and rats in my freezer. I can handle some icky things and situations.

I CANNOT HANDLE 70 TO 80 DEAD COCKROACHES!!!!

Supposedly I walked around the rest of the apartment. I remember not wanting to open any closet doors in the bedroom, and once I got into the kitchen and I saw the 3 live cockroaches trapped at the bottom of a clear glass pitcher I was done. Took one last look at the pile of roaches (because at that point it was kinda like a train wreck that I couldn't look away from) and walked out the door.

Outside Apartment Manager was bright red and apologizing profusely, in between shaking his head in disbalief. Craigslist Guy is telling me over and over again how he has never heard of anyone living here having a bug problem. LSU Friend is looking green. And me? Honestly I'm trying to keep from laughing. There is no way in hell I'm living here, but I'm trying to put myself in Apartment Manager's shoes and I do feel bad for him. He shouldn't have shown me the place without inspecting it first. I know he was thinking, "This is the last time I do a favor for Craigslist Guy". My cheeks are burning because I don't want to make the scene anymore awkward by laughing.

Then this happens...

Apartment Manager: "Hey Ed!" Gesturing for some older tenant who was checking his mail to come over. "Ed. Do you have a bug problem?"
Ed: "Bug problem?"
Apartment Manager: "Yeah, do see roaches in your place."
Ed: "Yeah sure. I see 'em all the time."
Me: "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!" (I just couldn't hold it in.)

As LSU Friend and I left, never to return again, she looked at me and said, "If you live here I will never step foot into your place." My mind was made up right there. LSU Friend is responsible for at least half the the alcohol I consume and probably 20% responsible for me getting shit face drunk. There is no way I'm loosing LSU friend.

"I'll keep looking."


P.S. No, we never found out why someone would sweep 70 to 80 dead cockroaches into a pile in the middle of the living room floor and not pick them up. It's one of life's little mysteries.

P.S.S. Boyfriend and I have being living in a nice little duplex for about a month now in Clarksville. I have yet to see one bug, dead or alive, in the house. (Knock on wood.)

"Hi. My name is Lemon, and I'm an addict."

Addiction
A lot of people I know watch the show “Intervention”. I have seen a few episodes, but they kind of disturb me. For those of you who haven’t seen the A&E hit, they all follow the same pattern…

Scene 1: Meet Junkie. (I’m going to use the word junkie although technically a junkie is someone addicted to drugs and more specifically Heroin. But for some people their love for hording troll dolls and drinking a bottle of Gin while singing to their cat is totally like Heroin, so Junkie they will be called.)

Scene 2: See Junkie in their day to day activities of being a junkie. This can include getting ready for work in a 500 square foot apartment with enough crap to fill the local Goodwill and enough trash to make Oscar the Grouch giggle like school girl, poor Vodka into your bowl of Fruit Loops, or smoke enough Crystal Meth so even the viewer’s teeth shutter and start rotting from the inside out.

Scene 3: Family members cry and show pictures of when Junkie was just a slightly overweight teen with an ache problem. “Junkie has so much love in his/her heart..”

Scene 4: Intervention. Junkie, family, and friends sit in a circle on folding chairs. I mention the chairs because obviously Junkie doesn’t have this many chairs in his house. Hell, my parents don’t have enough chairs to hold an Intervention. Everyone must be seated... mom, dad, step mom, step dad, brother, sister, the half-brother twins, sister-in-law, nephew, Pastor of the church Junkie attended as a kid, co-worker 1, co-worker 2, co-worker 3, friend 1, friend 2, best friend, other best friend who until now thought he was the only best friend, ex girlfriend/boyfriend, dude from the liquor store down the street, nosy neighbor, and grandma. It’s like 25 chairs. Even with my parent’s new pool and therefore new patio furniture, even they don’t have 25 chairs. This means one of two things, A&E trucked in 25 folding chairs and everyone grabbed one as they walked into Junkies apartment, or everyone brought their own chair. Important tip for any Junkies out there... if you see a truck full of chairs pull up the curb in front of your house, or your friends start coming over with their own chairs in hand, shot up, grab the Tequila, and run.

Scene 5: ? (I’ve never gotten past the actual intervention. I have no idea what happens next. Do they go to rehab? Do they confess their crimes? Does grandma have a heart attack? I have no idea. I just can’t get past the intervention because the whole addiction part of this show hits way to close to home...

Why?
Because...

I am addicted. (sorry mom and dad)


Breakfast Tacos.

Breakfast Tacos are my crack. They are my speed, my morphine, my caffeine. I crave them. I need them. I am addicted. “Hi. My name is Lemon Lady, and I’m an addict.”
Every morning at 9:00 something in my brain clicks and starts screaming, “MUST HAVE BEAN AND CHEESE...!!!!” Then (and I’m not sure if this is scientifically how it happens) nerves that the taco addicted brain controls send green lights down to my arms and legs that are holding the steering wheel and pressing on the gas of my car. I then start to fantasize about soft warm tortillas, and before I even know what I’m doing or how I go there I am handing over my debit card and collecting my fix. Don’t judge. I’m sick.
Like any good Junkie I have learned to hide my addiction from my family, friends, and even my suppliers.

First up, my family. It is no secret in my family that I don’t particularly like breakfast food. It is also no secret that I love Mexican food. Really love Mexican food. For my 10th birthday I made my mom throw me a Mexican Fiesta. Now to most my friends here in south Texas this doesn’t seem like that big of a deal or to hard for my very talented, amazing mother to handle. But we didn’t live in south Texas. We lived in England, and my birthday is in December. Could she run to HEB for tortillas? No. Where there avocados at the Commissary? No. Was there a Mexican supply store for her to pick up a piñata and casscorones? No. Still, I wanted a Mexican fiesta and my mother made me a Mexican Feista. Now when I go home and my parents ask what I want for breakfast (because we always have big breakfast together) I try not to scream, “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN!!! JUST ROLL SOMETHING IN A TORTILLA SO I CAN SHOVE IT IN MY MOUTH AND CALM THE SCREAMING BRAIN CELLS THAT NEED THE POTATO, EGG, AND CHEESE!!!” (sorry mom and dad)

My friends don’t see me very often in the morning, and although I don’t usually get to work until 9:30 I’m actually one of the early birds at my office. Most other people who do the same job I do get in about 10:30-11:00. It’s the weekend when I really have be confident that I can control my taco urges, put my big girl panties on and just say no. Poor boyfriend. On mornings when we are both home and don’t have to word i.e. Sundays, he is always up before me. Sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 I wonder into the living room to cuddle with him and drink some of his juice. At about 9:12 I start to think of subtle ways I bring up the breakfast taco situation like the sane and rational girlfriend I pretend to be.
“Are you hungry?”

“Oh look at that nice house that nice couple in New Jersey is thinking about buying on House Hunters. It has a nice kitchen. Wouldn’t that bar be perfect for STUFFING TACOS DOWN MY THOAT because I’m starting to get the shakes?”

“I will trade you my childhood bike (pink with rainbow streamers), four purple Popsicles, a lewd sexual act, the good pillows to sleep with tonight, my soul, and let you play with my iPhone for a whole hour with no interruptions if you go to Taco Shack right now and come home with two migas tacos.”

“Its 9:22 and you haven’t even brought up going to Torchy’s Tocos, yet. WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU AND WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME!!!”

While my family, boyfriend, and friends understand that I am a little weird and defiantly the most awkward person they know, I try to come off to strangers as very cool, calm, and collective. I’m a young professional. Look, I’m wearing heals, and I put on makeup. “She is driving a mid-price car, lives in a nice home on a nice street, and subscribes to the Economist.* She must be a contributing member of society.”I have an image to uphold. Because I care what strangers who work at Taco stands think and maybe more because I’m a paranoid Junkie, I have my dealers on rotation.

When I need them fast and greasy: Taco Cabana. I always get their Breakfast Combo… one bean and cheese, one potato egg and cheese, and an unsweetened ice tea. They are located right as I get off the highway on my way to work and have a drive through. Yes, the hot sauce is sometimes watery. Yes, about 40% of the time I don’t actually get cheese on my potato, egg, and cheese taco because the Cabana-ians who work the place don’t understand that just because the menu only says “potato and egg” doesn’t mean that people don’t want to add cheese for an extra 20 cents. Yes, the drive through guy who works Mondays has creepy long crack nails. I don’t care. If it’s 9:32 and I’m not at work I’m zipping through the Cabana drive through to get my fix.

When I want my Tacos with an amazing ice tea and with potatoes with a nice crunch: Rudys. The Worst BBQ in Texas also makes the worst breakfast tacos in Texas. And, duh, my worst I mean the BEST! As moist as the brisket is at lunch time, their potato, egg, and cheese can’t be touched at breakfast. Honestly, hands down love the potato, egg, and cheese. They are huge, the potatoes are seasoned well and have a nice crunch, and they load on the cheese! Downside of Rudy’s tacos… bean and cheese is a no go. They make them by using the same baked beans they use as sides with BBQ later on in the day. Really, not yummy. They don’t have a drive through and they are usually quite busy. Lastly, every time I walk up the counter to order, which I have to do because they don’t pre-make potato, egg, and cheese, the guy behind the counter makes the same conversation about my Dallas Cowboys debt card. “Cowboy fan? Boo! Go Stealers!”Now the first time this happened I humored him by letting him know that the Stealers are going to be horrible this year, their quarterback is a rapist, and “aren’t you you a little far from home?”. Now I just glare at him. This doesn’t stop him from his little Stealer routine and staring at my boobs.

The new place: Convience Store around the corner with a Torchy’s Taco hookup. Torchy’s gets high ranks for their salsa and bean flavor. Unfortunately Store around the corner isn’t Torchy, but just sells their tacos meaning they can be soggy, but only sometimes. Good news is that I went into another Corner Store yesterday with LSU friend to grab wine and M&Ms before hitting the couch for a new Top Chef, and they have Torchy’s Tacos, too! (Say that five times fast… Torchy’s Tacos Too. Torchy’s Tacos Too. Torchy’s… you get the point) Now if I can only get them to start a price war…

Old Faithful: Nau’s Pharmacy. Full of funny old people getting their fix of medications, I go to Nua’s Pharmacy to get my drug of choice – Tacos. At the back of the Pharmacy that has been around 1951 is a café where they still mix their cokes in shop and make a damn fine chicken salad. During the morning all the seats around the counter and the few booths are full of old men reading newspapers and grandmas entertaining their grandchild for the summer. You can’t get a seat but you can get amazing tacos for a buck. No ice tea here, but I always leave with a “made in front of me” Dr. Pepper. Love this place! I have nothing bad to say. They don’t skimp on filling up the tortilla, the price is good, and no one stares at me inappropriately. (Well maybe an old man or two…)

Other runners up include: Taco Shack, Enchiladas Y Mas, Maria’s Taco Stand, Juan in a Million, and La Reina.

Remember… Rehab is for quitters.



*okay the Economist subscription isn’t mine but boyfriends…

Why this blog. American Studies... What???

Why.
Why this blog…

Four years ago I had a professor who sat me down and told me she was going to give me a D on a paper I wrote for her class. I almost started crying. Not because I was getting a D, because I had received at least one failing grade before (okay maybe more than one but chemistry is hard.), but because I actually worked hard writing this paper. Now I know you’re about to start judging because I can’t actually remember the famous, African American woman I wrote this paper about.. but seriously it was an amazing piece of charisma and pizazz. She was this eccentric, alcoholic who would paint her face white to ride on trains, and only write in the nude. The paper was supposed to be 10 pages, give biographical information about the person, and discuses their work.

Now I think you, the reader, need to understand that I was an American Studies major. Yeah, run that thought through your head. American Studies. It is pretty much the most ridiculous major known only to the gays. American studies was a major some idiot made up apparently after he pissed off the women, the Blacks, the Asians, the Hispanics, and sociology department. It’s the History department’s slightly retarded little brother. The best way to describe what American Studies is, is to ask you to think about to high school history. After you spent two weeks learning about WWII, at the end of the chapter in your textbook there would be a little box. That box would go something like this…

“Did you know that women were alive during WWII as well? Did you know that because all the men were fighting for our freedom in many glamorous locations all over the world, women had to work? Crazy I know!!! All over the country these petite little dewdrops of femininity put down the wash and picked up screw drivers. And guess what happened??? They liked to work!!! Again, crazy I know. These Rosie the Riveters’ did everything their husbands, fathers, and brother used to do. (But don’t worry it was for less pay.) And did you know that African Americans fought for your freedom, even while at home their wives weren’t allowed to work with all those white women at the airplane factory? And guess what we did to our Asian friends? Mandatory Vaca!!!!”

Those boxes turned into American Studies. Now you might ask, “But wise Lemon Lady, why did this major called American Studies need to exist if universities already had an African American Studies program? A Gender Studies program? An Asian Studies Program? A Religious Studies Major? A History Department? And a Sociology Department.” My only answer is because of the gays. Sometime in the 1980s someone, I’m assuming gay but maybe not, decided the gays needed a major, too. Apart from one class offered to Gender Studies majors. There were no queer classes. Thus, American Studies was born! Part women, part minorities, part sociology, part Jesus loving, part gay. Bam!!! New major. Now where can we put the offices of these poor shmucks? A new nice building on Dean Keaton? No. A classic structure on the six pack? No. Then where? Then someone had a momentary flash of brilliance…

“You know that amazing, original to the university, gorgeous brick building where we house the History Department.”
“Yes, I am aware of the awesomeness of that architectural delight.”
“Let us put part women, part minorities, part sociology, part Jesus loving, part gay Department in… THE ATTIC!”
“That is a fantastic idea. This way none of the advisers or professors will be able to stand up in their offices because of the slant of the roof. Oh and that’s a horrible name, we’ll have to change it.”

The point I’m trying to make is not that my degree is dumb. Any education is good education. And any degree from the school I attended is a good degree, but if you put my degree next to a BS in Engineering it’s no surprise which one gets more job calls and prestige. With an engineering degree you actually learned how to do something. Make something. Solve something. Me, not so much. I learned how homosexuals in the 1960’s fought back at Stonewall. I learned how racial lines were blurred in the 1940s in rural Tennessee because of water disputes. I learned how Americans think through problems like how to build National Parks and the Holocaust. I learned about doing things instead of actually doing them. One sentence to sum it up… My classes were weird.

Anyway… Back to this horrible paper I wrote. I thought it was amazing. I mixed all the biographical information about this crazy poet into a beautiful mixture of quotes from her poetry, and fiction I created to put myself in her shoes to fully understand her work and bring it into the modern day. She was a rebel in so few words, so I thought I would go rebel and not write the boring research paper I knew everyone would be drafting the night before. I thought my professor, who I had had previously for How Americans View and Understands Property, would applaud my creativity and my out of the box thinking to a research paper. This professor had given me an A for my final paper in the property class that was about airplane seat hierarchy narrated from the view of four different airplane seats on the same international flight. She praised personifying damn airplane seats for crying out loud!!!
I got a D. She told me although I’m funny and kinda witty, and she enjoyed reading my paper I didn’t follow the syllabus therefore I got a D. Then this was said,

“Lemon Lady, do you like to write?”
“Yeah…”
“Did you let anyone read this paper before you handed it to me?”
“Um, the proof reader from the English department.”
“And what did he say?”
“He says I spell at a third grade level, have poor sentence structure, and form paragraphs like I’m talking to my best friend.”
“You should start a blog.”


Four years later.
You’re welcome Ms. Thompson.