Monday, August 30, 2010

You Know You Live in the Boonies When...

Now I've never considered myself a Southerner, though I've lived in the south my whole life, but this weekend I got to see the pinnacle of Southern hospitality I've ever witnessed as I attended the Great NC Beer Festival with my mother and Bsarita.

As we entered the festival, cut off tees and overalls dotted the landscape of hick-ery that was out in full force. I can't say I was in my Sunday's best (donning running shorts and a t-shirt), but I can say I was shocked at the utter disregard for bodily coverage that many a person displayed. Mid-drifts gone awry with piercings and tattoos, not to mention the stab wounds that were making appearances. I wasn't too surprised since it was a beer festival, after all, but it definitely gave Lindsey Lohan a run for most exposed.

As we walked around the in sweltering sun, Bsarita and I commented on the array of disarray. I saw a few people dressed cutely that I knew from high school, though their names escaped me, but then there were those people I just couldn't place, which was probably for the better. My mom did see someone that we knew in middle school, whom she swears she thought "should have been a man by now."

Since we got there well into the festival, we didn't have to worry about conversation starters as the already tipsy attendees said things like, "Daaaayuummm," or "So how many samples have you had?" My favorite was (after Bsarita got beer spilled on her) "Well if you do end up taking off your shirt, I'm sure you'd make enough money to buy these ribs to eat." This was coming from a pair consisting of 5'2'' white dude with stabbing scars galore exposed due to his shirtlessness who was pushing a guy in a wheel chair....the comment of course came from the seated friend.

People were rocking out to some music and eating $10 sandwiches as we tried weasling around the half-clothed scalawags to get to the beer booths to get our samples before they were out. The temperatures reached what felt like 150 degrees and the people were getting restless, as exemplified through one hillbilly's rant about how Obama wasn't even really black but still didn't deserve to be President. Not only did I want him to stop fist pumping the air but I also wanted to throw him a proper shirt to cover both his gut and goatee but I was at a loss for what garment would do both.

Moral of the story: I need a pair of jorts and a child's size tube top if I'm going to continue living at home.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Retirement, My New Frontier

Since I've had so much free time as of late, I've been trying out different types of living. The student life (just exited that phase, sadly..), the bum life (still employing some of those methods as I couch surf my way around America), the mother life (babysitting...sometimes), and now the life of a retiree. The last one sounded luxurious and just up my alley. No working, living off of someone else's hard-earned pension plan, taking naps at 10 AM, and eating whatever because you're too old to keep up with the calorie counts associated with foods from the Waffle House... in a nut shell, the perfect life.

In keeping with my bum life, I traveled down south to visit some family and sleep on their couches/beds, whatever they could provide. I ended up spending most of my trip with my grandmother because she is about to have surgery but still offered to make every meal I wanted to eat...for free. With no other commitments waiting on me at home, a 3 day trip turned into a 5 day trip, only furthering my interest in skipping employment and hopping right into retirement.

On our list of activities, number one was visiting our old friends at church, followed by seeing more at our favorite restaurant. I started using the "we" and "our" form of possessive just to see how it really felt to be one of the elite retired. It was amazing how, when retired, you can sit at a restaurant and gab for hours and not be worried about missing something. The after church gossiping, in line with true Catholic doctrine, was what the something you might miss. We especially didn't have to worry about missing TV shows since the DVR was set to record the best: "America's Got Talent," "Regis and Kelly," and "The View."

The gossip was by far the best. Myself being situated at the end of the table with my grandmother and her dear friend of ages past, I heard the majority and even got to comment on a few. I learned about various peoples' cholesterol, grandchildren, and bad hip replacements. I found that if I threw in a "Oh no, did she really sit on her reading glasses?" or a "We all know she's gray underneath that brunette Q-tip," I fit right in. It was a refreshing switch from talking about who made out with who or what outfit we were going to wear that night...these topics from my former life were mostly off limits because, with this crowd, the nights consisted of falling asleep in front of the TV and if you weren't married, you weren't making out with anyone.

The crowning glory of my retired life was beating the crowd at Outback by eating at 5 pm. When you become retired, everything gets pushed back 2 hours and the prices get cut in half...a combo that's hard to resist.

The wine was flowing as our happy hour glasses remained full and our early bird specials were chased away with the best house merlot. Having a buzz equates to putting all topics on the table, at least in my family and as I was learning, at any age. Somehow weird innuendos and tones turned seemingly normal phrases into comments that made me want to be 10 again and not understand. For example, to give it context, my grandmother was talking to her boyfriend about how the people at his church never gave her a chance and didn't really know which he responded "OOOOhhh well I KNOW you"...I could almost hear him wink with his inflection and the word Biblically following the phrase.

Somehow this didn't phase me, but I did decide I couldn't hang with this crowd for too long and I might need to find my own retirement community near my house so as not to mix together the business of being retired and the pleasure of not knowing what my grandmother was up to when I wasn't around.

Nonetheless, one the way home, it did not surprise me when we were discussing someone they both knew and my grandmother said, "Well you know ugly doesn't get you anywhere."

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Not Quite Buried Alive...

As part of my life cleanse, I chose to spend yesterday rearranging my mess of collections at my mom's house. For those of you that don't know, for the past 8 years I've been collecting random pieces of paper and other bits in hopes of making a banging scrapbook documenting my life. While this seemed a valiant effort, it never came to fruition and instead of using my time to scrapbook, I instead clogged my closet, masking my borderline hoarding disorder....needless to say, it was time for a personal intervention.

As I began my work, I really started to ask myself if it was worth it. There were approximately 7 shoe boxes full of crap and I had no idea what most of it was supposed to signify. I didn't know where to start, or ultimately if it would ever end. All I could think was, I do not want TLC finding these piles 20 years down the road while my kids, being unable to have friends over because I was keeping newspapers from 2000 on the couch, complain that the hoarding kept us buried alive. This kind of motivation told me I could handle it.

It was about 6 PM and considering my whole day was pretty unproductive, I decided to venture down memory lane. To give you an idea of the items I found, I picked a few of the real gems that, unfortunately, I have no idea why I kept.

1. a piece of a tennis ball- perhaps at one point in my delusions of my athletic grandeur, the piece gave me hope that I could slam a ball and rip it like that, or I just thought my boxes of memories was trash

2. an unidentifiable piece of flora- I would like to think it was some sort of flower a guy once gave me, but considering the other flower parts I found were sealed in plastic bags, this prior assumption proved faulty and thus I used gloves to remove it from my memories

3. programs from every Dance Concert from every year I was in high school- all I need to say is that I was never in dance class and never performed in the concerts that occurred twice a year

4. two sets of chopsticks- I don't really need to explain why their appearance in my memory box was alarming

Luckily, all the boxes and scraps took only 6 hours to organize. Since I'm still looking for a job that won't involve me shaking my money maker, this 6 hours was totally worth it.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Neighborhood Watch

Last night was trivia night, per usual when I'm at home, and it somehow devolved into a $400 bar tab (over the course of 6 hours with 6 people and food, seems a little out of character, but not wholly unbelievable). This was not an usually crazy night, but instead just a good time with some expensive tastes. We eventually took the party aka people passing out to my house for a movie. I had long switched to drinking water and was stone cold sober and not in the mood for Nicole Kidman, but I thought I'd entertain to the best of my abilities.

Eventually, we all agreed it was time to call it quits. It was about 1 AM, not a rager but not too shabby, and a respectable bedtime. My friend, Bpotter, was driving Bian home, so I went along to pick up a car we left earlier. Bpotter nearly missed a couple of hooligans who were staggering into the road. The two teenagers lingered in the streets with an eye for vandalism and I was shocked that their parents let them out at that hour. I'm 22.8 and I was barely awake that late!

On my way back, I saw the couple strutting their can't gain a pound, teeny bopper stuffs around in the middle of the street. I slowed down, real creeper like, and decided to help them out by saying, "Hey kids, you shouldn't walk in the middle of the street. You could get hit and no one wants that!" They guffawed and as I drove off, I saw the moppy-headed boy walk right in the middle of the road.

I understand teenage rebellion, but at the cost of life? Maybe I'm turning into a mom since I have been having a lot of dreams where I have a baby, but I really don't understand that mess, so I guess that's what prompted my next action.

As soon as I got home, I called the popo. Drastic? Maybe. But I'm not about to let some hoodlums mess up my town! I quickly told the operator about the couple and how I thought they were on drugs and up to no good. She almost giggled as I described the boy as "a lanky, no good, blonde-wavy headed thug." I needed a good description so the cops would know exactly who I was talking about. Who dare disrespect my good advice?! I'm taking this campaign to the streets!

I think this was the ultimate follow up for my attempt at calling the ALE on a bar serving minors that wouldn't let me, a legal drinker, in with no cover. What is the world coming to?