Monday, October 25, 2010

My Fantasy White Trash Wedding

Before you continue reading, I should direct you to this post on my Steve Perry blog, more specifically, to the edit at the end of the entry, as that is the only part that relates to that which I am about to write. You can skip the rest of the crap if you're pressed for time or are too lazy to read two entire blog posts.

Awhile ago, my friend Taylor introduced me to the genius that is Rob Dyrdek. Several "Fantasy Factory" episodes and a couple of "Rob and Big" marathons later, I have decided that I will someday marry him. He's hilarious and doesn't take himself too seriously and hello--he has a whole warehouse dedicated specifically to whimsy and flights of fancy! Who wouldn't want to marry him?

This fantasy has never been well-constructed, as I never really thought out what kind of wedding ceremony we'd have beyond it being at the Fantasy Factory, namely because I'd get distracted by "Jersey Shore" or Tic Tacs or something and direct my attention elsewhere. But earlier today, when Taylor was giving me shit for not including Rob in my list of potential sugar daddies on Lover of Many, Father of None (I feel like an asshole, but I'm linking to it anyway), we managed to flesh-out a ceremony that was so white trash and fabulous that I'm already disappointed at the fact that my actual future hypothetical wedding ceremony will probably be classier and not nearly as epic. Here goes:

The wedding would be held at The Fantasy Factory. Taylor, who is a notary, will be officiating a la Joey in "Friends" (yeah, yeah, I know it's in Spanish, but a) everybody pretty much has already seen this scene with maybe the exception of people who are stranded on a desert island/in a cave/on a mountain/live in Perry and b) all you really need to see is that Joey is marrying Monica and Chandler). She is also wearing a crazy costume just like Joey, although whether or not it's a war getup is completely up to her. Rob would be dressed as Bobby Light and I would be dressed as Mrs. Claus since Rob is the Sugar Daddy Santa Claus. Except I would be a sexy, young Mrs. Claus because I am sure he wouldn't be turned on by a grandmotherly-type figure, as that would be weird and off-putting. Bobby Light, Steve Perry and Chanel would all collaborate on a song called, "Dirty Girl pt. 3: Dirty Girl Gets Married" just for the occasion. The reception afterward would be filled with fun, frivolity and sweet skateboarding. It would pretty much be the best wedding in the history of weddings.

Like I said, I'm so excited at how my fake wedding would go down that I'm already disappointed in my hypothetical real one: the ceremony would be a boring Catholic Mass and the reception afterwards will feature songs that have been played at every other wedding: the Electric Slide, the Cha-Cha Slide and Celine Dion's and Mariah Carey's entire song catalogs. There would be no Bobby Light. Or skateboards. Or Steve Perry. BORRRRIIIINNNGGG!

Taylor did guarantee that if I hired her on as my wedding planner, she would make sure that I would get a white trash wedding that's comparable to my Fantasy Factory fake one, and I plan to hold her to that. She said that we couldn't use the internet for any sort of planning since it's a fad and won't likely be around too much longer and that we could invite people via a mass text. Sounds like the beginning of a fabulous white trash wedding to me!

Sweet Shoe Deal

So I don't really know what to blog about, as most of the ideas I've had involve writing about my work, and I don't really want to discuss my daytime gig here. So instead, I'll throw up this picture of these sweet shoes I got from Ross this weekend for $17.

My friend Ali and I went shopping Sunday with the intent of buying work clothes (pants for me, an outfit for her), but we got distracted and, in my case, buying shoes is a lot more fun than buying boring ol' work pants. AND I can wear the shoes at work, so I still win.

Next weekend: a pedicure, both as a birthday treat to myself AND so I can rock these with pretty toes!

Sunday, October 10, 2010

My Dog is Socially Awkward

I didn't want to accept it at first, but after today's excursion to the dog park, making it the fourth excursion since I've gotten Ava, I have no choice but to admit that she's socially awkward around other dogs. In all honesty, I was expecting a little social awkwardness when I first got her. My sister never took her out in public a lot when she owned her, so I knew she was bound to be a little anxious around other members of her own kind. I witnessed this firsthand the first weekend I had her. I met my friend AA and her little Dotson, Rammy, at the dog park, and Ava's behavior was akin to that weird kid in kindergarten who never played with the other kids and instead preferred to sit in the corner and eat dried glue off the carpet. Rammy would try to engage in play; Ava would whimper and run off to a far area of the park where she was perfectly content to sniff the ground. Multiple times during the visit, while Rammy and the other dogs would be frolicking together, my friend would ask, "Where's Ava?" and we would see her standing off by herself, staring into space. It was disheartening, but I was confident that the more I took her out, the more she would get used to other dogs, eventually out-growing her social awkwardness.

Last week, I thought we had made a breakthrough, as she actually played with another little dog. It was only for a short time, as the little dog's owners had to leave, but there was actually playtime occurring. Not only that, but she wasn't as terrified of the bigger dogs like she used to be. Sure, she was still like, "WTF is going on?" when they would come up, but instead of trying to hide behind my legs, she would at least stay still while they sniffed her butt and reciprocate the process. I never thought I would be so excited to see my dog willingly sniff another dog's ass. I was encouraged. The next time we went to the dog park, I was sure she would be cured and engage with the others like a real dog.

Eh, not so much. I wouldn't say she's regressing, but I also don't think she'll make any more progress. During today's visit, she explored the park, but wouldn't engage with the other dogs other than to sniff butts and call it a day. I have to think that maybe she just isn't a dog park kind of girl, but there's another part of me that refuses to give up, like a father who doesn't want to accept that his son would rather write emo poetry than play sports. So I will continue to listen to the part of me that's mired in denial and continue to take her to the dog park in the hopes that one day she'll meet at least one dog that she'll voluntarily play with. I'll love her no matter what her quirks are, but I can't yet accept the fact that I'm the owner of the dog equivalent of "that kid" in kindergarten.

Photographic evidence of Ava's social awkwardness: watching the other dogs and owners play while standing as far away as humanly possible.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

My Sister is Adopted

Just kidding, she really isn't. But when she was around ten years old, I managed to convince her that she was. I was sitting outside on the porch of our parents' house, trying to read, and she was annoying me. I don't remember what, exactly, she was doing that annoyed me, but back then, it didn't take much. Just her mere presence was enough to drive me bat-shit crazy sometimes. So as a joke, I decided to tell her she was adopted, but my intention wasn't to take it as far as I did. It was originally supposed to go something like this:

Laura: (doing annoying things)
Me: Stop it, you're annoying me.
Laura: (doing even more annoying things to annoy me further)
Me: There's no way we're related. You must be adopted.
Laura: Tee-hee-hee! No I'm not! (does more annoying things then runs away, her job done)

It was supposed to be done in an it's-obvious-I'm-messing-with-you kind of way, but that message must have gotten lost in the multitude of synapses on the way to my brain, because here's what happened instead:

Laura: (doing annoying things)
Me: Stop it, you're annoying me.
Laura: (doing even more annoying things to annoy me further)
Me: You know you're adopted, right?
Laura: No I'm not. (efforts are re-doubled in annoying me)
Me: Yes you are. Why do you think there aren't as many pictures of you as a baby as there are of me?*
Laura: (stops doing annoying things) Because. They just didn't take as many pictures of me, I guess. (goes back to doing annoying things)
Me: It's because those are the only pictures the adoption agency had.
Laura: (stops doing annoying things entirely and is wavering between belief and disbelief) You're lying.
Me: No I'm not. You're adopted.
Laura: (clearly doubting the legitimacy of her status in our family) If I go ask Mom, she'll say I'm not adopted.
Me: If you're so sure you're not adopted, then why do you need to go and ask Mom if you are?
Laura: (goes into the house to ask Mom)

It was supposed to end there. She would ask Mom if she were adopted, Mom would tell her she wasn't, I could go back to reading, and she would leave me alone. Instead, I heard my mom calling for me a minute or so later: "Sarah, come in here."

Crap. I was going to get in trouble, and this issue wasn't even worth getting into trouble over. It seemed harmless enough. Older siblings mess with their younger counterparts all the time! If I'd had a quarter for every joke I played on Laura before this particular instance, I would have had enough money to pay for my college tuition. Reluctantly, I walked into the house and to the kitchen where my mom was standing with Laura, and got something I hadn't bargained for:

Me: What?
Mom: I thought we agreed that we wouldn't tell Laura she was adopted until she was older.

I was stunned. Mom was playing along? This was better than I expected! I was still completely caught off-guard, so all I could manage to choke out was, "I'm sorry," but it was enough. Laura's doubts had been confirmed, and, faced with a major revelation her ten year-old mind wasn't equipped to handle, she did the only thing she could do: she burst into tears. It was loud, and woke up my father, who had been asleep in my parents' bedroom (he worked midnights at FDLE back then). Pissed that he had been awakened from his slumber, he demanded to know what was going on. My sister ran to him, and between sobs, informed him that I told her she was adopted. I sure as hell wasn't going to go down alone, so I quickly pointed at mom and said, "Hey, Mom helped too!" Poor Pops had to do damage control. After calming Laura down and reassuring her that she was a 100% legit member of our household, he gave me and Mom a stern talking-to ("You should have known better," blah blah blah) while we attempted to put on our most sobering facial expressions, and finally went back to bed.

I wish I could say I felt remorse for this particular joke, but I don't. I actually consider it a pretty impressive feat that I was able to convince someone who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she wasn't adopted that she was. That takes some mad powers of persuasion. And don't worry about my sister. She didn't suffer any sort of emotional or mental trauma from this incident, and today we get along swimmingly and are the best of friends.

*There are plenty of pictures of my sister as a baby, and for those of you who know us, one look at her will tell you there is absolutely NO WAY she is adopted. No way. We look too much alike. But being the first-born, my parents went picture crazy and there is literally an entire album of me doing nothing except being a baby in various scenarios: in my playpen, in the bathtub, in mom or dad's arms. If you put the pictures together, in order, and flip through them, it would probably be an animation of me. It was a tad overkill. They learned their lesson, so when Laura came around, they only took a few key photos and that was it. So where I have piles and piles of useless photos, Laura might have less, but they are all worth saving.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Awkward Moments With Mom

I love my mom. She doesn't put up with anybody's crap, she tries to do her best by me and my sister, and she never makes me do the dishes after a meal when I visit, even though I offer. However, when I lived at home, she had the uncanny ability to watch the most awkward television shows and movies with me, and it drove me crazy.

The first instance occurred when she decided to watch an episode of Dawson's Creek with me. During my freshman year of high school, I was big into Dawson's Creek. On Wednesday nights, I couldn't wait to come home from church youth group, curl up on the couch, and get lost in the lives of Joey, Dawson, Pacey, and the whorish girl for an hour. Growing up, there was only one television set in our house, and it was located in the living room, so whenever you decided to tune into your favorite show, you had to accept the fact that somebody else might join you. However, I thought Dawson's Creek was exempt from this unwritten rule, because normally my parents would hang out in their room (not having sex, you pervs), my sister would be in hers (trying to dance like Jennifer Lopez), and I would have DC all to myself. But one night, my mom, curious as to what the hype was all about, decided to watch an episode with me. I was pissed. I had been waiting all week for my DC time, and I didn't want my mom to tarnish it with her parental judgement.

As my luck would have it, the one time she decided to watch it with me, the episode was about sex. Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. That's pretty much all they talked about for the entire hour. Being fifteen years old and watching a TV show about sex with your mom is mortifying. I didn't look at her one time. I just prayed that maybe a miracle would happen, like when they would start talking about sex, she would think they were talking about jai alai. It could happen. God could do anything. That's what we were told in church youth group. Unfortunately, God did not perform a miracle and Mom was well-aware that the DC kids were talking about sex. After the episode was over, she announced that it wasn't an appropriate TV show for me to watch, and Dawson's Creek was banned in our household, leaving me no choice but to ride my bike over to my friend Dawn's house and watch it there.

After the Dawson's Creek incident, not only would my mom continue to watch awkward programming with me, she started to comment on the uncomfortable parts as well. One night during an episode of ER, a scene came on where Noah Wylie's character was having sex with his girlfriend. You couldn't really see anything, just shadows, but you could hear it, and I was hoping that the scene would end before Mom had a chance to say something. No dice. She chimed in, "Wow, they didn't leave much to the imagination as to what they're doing, huh?" I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. This time, however, she did not ban me from watching ER, a decision in which the underlying logic eludes me to this day. She was oh-so-offended by the DC kids talking about sex, but other than the uncomfortable moment we shared, she didn't seem bothered by that scene in ER. I think it was because ER was one of her favorite shows, and to ban it meant she wouldn't be able to watch it either.

After I graduated from high school, I got a job at the poor man's Blockbuster, also known as Movie Gallery. One of the perks of employment was free rentals, so one night I brought home The Good Girl, a movie I had been wanting to see for some time. My mom wanted to see it too, so it didn't surprise me that when I went to watch it, she took her customary place on the love seat to join me. Around the middle of the movie, a sex scene between Jennifer Aniston and Jake Gyllenhaal came on, and even though I was eighteen, a college freshman, had a part-time job, and was a voting citizen, I still had to fight the urge to bury my face in my hands and telepathically will my mom to go away. Mom, however, stayed put and decided to do her part to make the situation even more suicide-inducing than it already was by chiming in with her never-failing commentary: "Wow, they're really going at it, huh?" Judging by the heat I felt in my face, I knew it was as red as a tomato, and I sat through the rest of the movie wrapped in a blanket of unease and anxiety, worried at what else she would say.

I love my mom, and when I have children of my own someday, I hope to be half as good to them as she is to me and Laura. But when the day comes where I am watching a movie or some TV with my kids and a dubious scene comes on, I'm just going to stare straight ahead, not say a word, not make eye contact, and pretend it's jai alai.