My Future as a Bootlegger

It all started in High School. Back then, I was just a social drinker. I might have a few drinks at parties or when I went out with friends. That didn’t last long. I then began to drink alone, when I felt the need. I would even make special trips to the store if it was unavailable at home. It didn’t really matter what time of day; morning, noon, night, it was all the same to me. Now, my addiction is something I try to hide even from the friends I started drinking with in the first place. I think about it all the time. The sleek silver can, the sweet yet stinging taste, the boundless energy I receive just a few short minutes after consumption. Diet Coke. How does anyone live without it?

I cannot make it through the day without caffeine, my drug of choice. But I do not consider myself hindered by this addiction. I like to think of Diet Coke as a friend and, like many people, I rely on our friendship to make it through the daily grind. In the life of an on-the-go American it can help with the most common of obstacles. Tired? Diet Coke. Headache? Diet Coke? A three hour meeting on the history of boring by Mr. Boss Man? My old companion, Diet Coke.

I’ll never forget the first time. I was at the beach, it was hot, and I was rather parched. I opened the lid of the ice chest and was instantly blinded by a bright reflecting light. As I looked down, I did not see the neon of the lemon-lime drinks I had grown accustomed to, but the shining silver of my first Diet Coke. The moment the bubbles hit my nose I knew this was no ordinary soda. Once the sharp sweetness hit the back of my throat I no longer had to wander through the world of your average, caffeine deprived beverages. I was home.



I have gone an entire day without Diet Coke. The consequences were far from pretty. I can become extremely grumpy. Snapping at family and friends at the slightest provocation is a common occurrence when I am going through caffeine withdrawals. The lack of Diet Coke causes me to become lethargic as well, I lose all focus without my daily fix. Not to mention the headaches. Those who are addicted to caffeine often suffer from nagging headaches that can last for days and I am no exception. Don’t you see why I need Diet Coke?

If you want more proof, if you are still not convinced that I am merely a victim of this very real addiction then please listen to what my friends, “The Researchers,” have to say, “Caffeine is the most popular and widely consumed drug in the world.” This means I’m not the only one, a comforting thought. But I fear that the recent use of the word “drug” when referring to caffeine will lead to one disastrous outcome: caffeine prohibition. If this were to take place, my future as a bootlegger would be sealed.

My Mom's Tennis Shoes

So the other day I had planned on going for a walk with my dad for exercise and father-daughter bonding time but I had worn flip flops by mistake and live too far to run home for shoes. My only solution: borrowing my mom’s tennis shoes.

I have this problem where I take sayings and turn of phrase entirely too seriously (see Birds, Pots, and Stones) and because of this, I hesitate before lacing up my mom’s sketchers. Phrases like “walk a mile in their shoes” and “those are big shoes to fill” came to mind and I thought to myself, “if putting someone’s shoes on literally means you take on their characteristics and lifestyle like these sayings suggest, does that mean I will become my mother if I squeeze my big, fat toes into these?”

It is generally acknowledged that no one wants to become their mother. There may be aspects of your mother that you admire and would one day like to emulate yourself but actually becoming her would defeat the purpose of all that teenage rebellion and know-it-all attitude you took the time and effort to develop in order to gather a sense of self and individuality.

Regardless, I put on the shoes. I walked, not just a mile, but three miles with my dad around my old neighborhood. Not once did I use the phrase “that’s what you’re wearing?” or “because I said so.” I did not ask, “Hey, who’s that actor from that show? You know, the one with the hair?” I did not make a short story long or pull my jeans above my belly button.

My mother’s an excellent woman in many ways. Hey, she raised me so there’s definitely a stroke of brilliance in that 50-something head of hers. It’s just that, when I’m a mother, I would like the chance to develop my own annoying qualities. Break the mold even. Be the mom that turns my child’s embarrassing moments into songs that we sing while company’s over or the mom that goes to the grocery store in evening gowns because I think people will wonder if I’m famous. My goal is to also have my children never want to become me but love all the eccentricities just the same. We all have our own paths to follow, you know?

Aw mom, what would I do without your electric curlers and passive-aggressive back-handed compliments?

Chicken Little Bro

So I made a joke at my brother’s expense. I wish I could do more things at my brother’s expense. Alas. Anyway, we were discussing his shirt-size so I could buy him a Christmas present and he claimed to be a medium. I immediately declared this as false since I…well…have eyes.

My brother’s a scrawny guy. He’s 19 but he’s about three years younger in general build and demeanor. He was born premature and ever since has been “the little one” as in:

“Hey, which one of those soccer players is Jesse?”

“Oh, he’s the little one.”

“Oh, I see him. Aw, he’s so cute…”



So I tell him that he has the upper body of an 11-year-old boy and GUESS WHAT? The clever little punk says, without skipping a beat, “so do you.” Gasp. How rude, right? Darn these kids and their quick comebacks.

I have never been one for comebacks. I stand, mouth ajar, too shocked by an insulting joke to respond. Though, if the joke’s good, I’ll usually feel some underlying appreciation as all things funny deserve to be acknowledged. He may have crushed that joke Professional-Baseball-Player-Removed-From-The-Hall-Of Fame-For-Using-Steroids style but, to be fair, I lobbed it to him like a teenage boy who throws like a little girl.

I’m gonna buy him an extra-small shirt for Christmas and use my evil laugh when it fits him like a glove.

Dentists and I do not recommend revenge due to it’s overwhelming sweetness.

The Big M

So I’m moving…again. What a roller coaster life’s been – this is my 3rd move in one year. And it’s never to anywhere exciting like, say, the moon. It’s just to another house with new roomies. Though this time it is going to be a bit different.

The first time I moved (from my parents home at the age of 24 – more than slightly embarrassing – if I was a the type of girl to have a sugar-daddy I would have gotten one to support me while I was in college but I’m not) I found my roommate on Craigslist. That’s right, some person claiming to be a 28-year-old named Susanna asked to meet me at her apartment to discuss the details of moving in and I went.

“What if it was some fat, bald 50-year-old man who wanted to take advantage of you?!”

“What if it was some serial killer who lures his young female victims through Craigslist?!” (I have extremely paranoid friends)

She wasn’t. She was a very sweet 28-year-old middle school teacher who grew up in South Africa and used Craigslist to lure young male victims so I was safe. Joking, of course. After all, if you know me, you know I’m the creepy one.

The second time I moved, I thought I was upgrading. Big, beautiful house right on the golf course in a community that sent passive-aggressive notes about having a satellite dish in the wrong place or a front porch light with too high a voltage. We ignored these notes as all things passive-aggressive should be ignored (they want to show up at the front door with a couple mafia hit men then I’ll consider changing the light bulb).


Despite several failed attempts to contact
you, the satellite dish on the Eastern side of your
house has still not been relocated. If you have
any questions or concerns please feel free to
promptly jump off a bridge…after you remove
the satellite dish, of course.


My best friend’s little sister, Kayla, became my roommate and life was good. We have a spa in the backyard and full access to a state-of-the-art fitness center (my spa-time to workout-time ratio isn’t exactly something to brag about but at least I've seen the fitness center). And, to top it all off, my best friend, Amanda, and her husband, Charlie, live right across the street!

Unfortunately, my measly $600 wasn’t enough to cover the $2,200 mortgage and my landlord, Kayla and Amanda’s dad, is giving us the boot since we couldn’t find roommates to occupy the other rooms in the house (you know who you are). What’s wrong with Beaumont, huh?

Now my roomie and I are in the process of moving in with said best friend and her character of a husband. They are extremely generous and I love them tremendously but I don’t think they know what they’re getting into.

Recent text to Amanda:

“Better get in all that crazy living room sex while you can! We’re moving in soon!”

No response as of yet. Curious. Maybe she was busy…

Prayer for Brandy

Re-posting:

"My name is Brandy. And I have a blog.

And a plea.

I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds. Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog- as personal as the dude that I adore (who I actually met through my blog- single ladies, let that be a very good reason to blog, the possibility of meeting someone as wonderful as my man), but I need your help. And it involves my dude.

He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the kinda guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job. He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school- dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred. He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.

The holidays have hit us hard. He’s recently been told he may have something called multiple myeloma- an incurable cancer, that gives a person an average of five years of continued life. Though this news has came as a shock, he continues to be exactly who has always been- spending his time worrying about me, rather than worrying about himself. He’s the most selfless individual I know- (he stayed late on Christmas Eve to work, so his co-workers could leave early) and a post like this would never be something that he would promote or encourage but when I’m overwhelmed and feeling helpless, the blogging community has always given me tremendous support and comfort, two things I desperately need at this time.

As I write this, the future is uncertain and we aren’t sure what’s happening. He’ll need to see an oncologist soon, to verify what’s going on in his body. My hope is that everyone who reads this think positive thoughts and if you are a person who prays, could you add him to your list? (You can refer to him as ‘brandy’s hot awesome dude’). If you don’t pray, please keep him in your heart.This cancer is only a possibility and I believe that the prayers and positive thoughts of people can make sure it never becomes a reality.

I want to give a big thank you to the blog owner who scraped their original blog plans and graciously put this up. My goal is to get as many people as possible to see and read this post. If you are reading this and want to help, copy and paste my plea into your blog or send a link through twitter, so more people can keep him in their thoughts. I would be so very grateful (even more grateful than I am to my friend who first showed me the picture of Ryan Reynolds on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. If you haven’t seen it, google it. You. Are. Welcome).

I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making- but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you and if you know anything regarding MM- please email me (my email is on my blog). This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be with the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next. Maybe it is silly, but I really do believe that positive thoughts can make a huge difference. Thank you for reading this and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.

I did."

-Age

Scrubs

So the day care where I work recently implemented a uniform policy and supplied each employee with three different sets of scrubs. You know, like the kind nurses wear. This was enforced to keep our clothes from being ruined by all those filthy children and to make sure that all the Booby McBreasterson’s follow the dress code. Unfortunately, I couldn’t break the dress code if I tried.



Now I am a preschool teacher, I look like a nurse, and I really hope people think I’m a doctor. No. A surgeon. I purposefully ordered those bluish-green scrubs so that I might be mistaken for someone far more successful. No such luck so far. It’s probably my general disheveled, rough around the edges look. Can’t seem to do anything about those darn edges.

The thing is, I don’t even work with the kids all that much. I’m the receptionist so, really, I’m above uniforms. I’m the first person anyone sees when they walk in. I physically represent this place and all it stands for (by the way, it stands for graham-crackers, long naps, and getting Columbus Day off). This means that I should be supplied with, not scrubs, but the latest and greatest in fashion and accessories. As soon as I’m done here I’m shooting my boss an email. She’ll see the reason in all of this, she’s a very smart lady after all. Except when she decided we should all become nurses. That was weird.

How long does it take to become a surgeon anyway?

Better yet, how do I get my hands on one of those white lab coats? I’ll just get me one of those, carry around a Starbucks cup at all times and people will simply assume my unkempt appearance is due to my demanding schedule as Southern California’s leading dolphin-to-human heart transplant surgeon. Jeez. Why do I always limit my abilities? ALL of California.

Introduction

I feel as though I should introduce myself though I'd rather just get right into this. Regardless, here I go...

My name is Adrienne and I don't know what I'm doing. That about sums me up really. But the fun of not knowing what you're doing is that it often comes with funny stories and a plethora of opportunities to laugh. Mostly at myself. Which is fine. No, really, it's fine. I decided that having a messy life is actually fun...Yes, it's going to be fun (insert forced smile here).