A little late for Memorial Day, but it’s never too late to be a patriot. I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free…to bare a hairy man-chest.
PS - If you don’t know Lee Greenwood, GET TO KNOW HIM ON A PERSONAL LEVEL!
God Bless the USA
When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone? A real conversation and not just about the weather or tax season. It feels like we’re all on autopilot and can’t talk about anything that deviates from the script that keeps everyone from thinking about anything out of the ordinary.
The other day I asked a person I know who works for the Red Cross the obvious question: Does the blood they collect really go to feed vampires? She dismissed my question as if I was stupid. Why is it stupid? You’re the one collecting all that blood, how do you really know where it goes? Why haven’t you already thought of this? Besides, if there are vampires out there, I feel much better thinking they are controlling their blood thirst with blood given voluntarily rather than attacking people in the night behind shady bars. I just know they’ll never get a taste for my blood because I’ve gotten both my tattoos in foreign countries. Having needles stuck into your skin in Amsterdam puts me on the donor list right above Magic Johnson. It’s probably okay, but they aren’t going to take any chances.
I spend a lot of my day around kids which is great because you can talk to them about anything. Just today, I heard two boys arguing over who would win in a fight between two dolphins and an elephant. See, right now you’re thinking, “That’s absurd. Elephants live on land and dolphins live in tanks at Sea World.” But if you think about it, home turf has the ultimate advantage in this scenario. Picture just for a second, two dolphins running a train on an elephant in the ocean. They’re jumping over it, splashing it, and just making it all pissed off. All the elephant can do is squirt some water out of its trunk. Flip the situation and put the dolphins on the African Savannah and they are dried up and withered. All the elephant has to do is shift its weight and stomp their skulls like a watermelon. The only way to make it a fair fight is to create an arena identical to the one in the last scene of Free Willy where the elephant is on some raised up land, and the dolphins can jump over while the attack each other.
But we’re adults. We don’t talk about stuff like that. We’re thinking about what we’re going to have for dinner, and if we need to stop by the grocery store, and if we remembered to clip that coupon for 20 cents off 10 containers of yogurt. We’re so consumed with the mundane autopilot stuff that when we do encounter another person all we can screech out is something about March Madness. “Hey, do you think Louisville can beat Kentucky? Man, that will be pretty wild, huh?” No! Who cares!! I wanna watch the dolphins jump over the elephant and keep my ass away from any charity blood drives.
People (women) always talk about being tall like it’s the ultimate blessing from heaven. I hear all the time, “you’re tall, you can hold your weight.” If by that you mean I can gain 20 pounds before I notice, then yes. But that just means I have a lot more to lose, which never happens. So I just keep packing it on, all while still wearing basically the same size clothes. Also, I’m 5’9, and I have been 5’9 for as long as I can remember. Not in my adult life, but my entire life. For all I know, I have been this height since elementary school. In my class photos, people would ask me what I was standing on.
Need to find me in those group photos? Back, middle….every single time. In 4th grade, my mom sent me to school in a blazer. I thought I looked very distinguished. When I went through the lunch line that day, I was charged more than usual. After telling the cashier I didn’t have enough money she asked, “aren’t you a sub?” Beyond mortified. I had been mistaken for an adult woman substitute teacher at the ripe old age of nine. While I continued to grow and experience literal growing pains in my joints and bones on a nightly basis, my dad had fantasies of a star basketball player in the house. The WNBA wasn’t even a thing yet, but he daydreamed about the college scholarship offers that would be pouring in my senior year, and all the NCAA games he would attend for free. The only problem was, in my brief two year basketball career, I had only managed to score one basket off a rebound. For those of you not familiar with sports terminology, that’s two points in two seasons. Not exactly the statistics college recruiters are looking for in the next Pat Summit. I just didn’t have a competitive bone in my body. Not to mention I wasn’t a big fan of sweating, wearing shorts, or being told to “hustle”.
I haven’t even covered love life, which was non-existent. No boy wants to ask out the girl in class who is taller than their mom. Every once in a while, a shrimpy little guy would start crushing on me, and lay the charm on pretty thick, but I made a personal rule early on, that if I could see over his head, outweighed him, or could fit into his jeans, we could never be more than friends. Luckily, in high school the boys started to catch up. I shed my braces, switched glasses for contacts, and started wearing make-up. It all worked out in the end, except I still can’t walk in heals, and was forced to develop a sense of humor from my ugly duckling (or should I say giraffe) years. So ladies, don’t covet another girl’s height. Not all tall girls are models, and even the models had many awkward years before blossoming into womanhood. Wear your stilettos proudly and say a little prayer for the girls who can only wear flats, because they would kill for your calf muscles.
