Love and Idiocy (Or, What NOT to Give on Valentine’s Day)

(google image)

It’s February 13, 1993. I’m 19 and finally ready to acknowledge the crush I have on that Sigma Alpha Epsilon boy I’ve been talking to. We’ve been on a few dates, had long late night phone calls, met up at bourbon-soaked parties…clearly, things are going well. I don’t yet know about his long-term girlfriend or the furious embarrassment I’ll endure when I find out about her later that spring, so at this particular moment, all systems are “go.”

I bum a ride from a friend, and together we head to that shining beacon of light we small-town Danville, KY, Centre College students call “Walmart” to hit the candy and card aisles as hard as we can. I buy lovely amounts of chocolate—some for me, some for the boy—and pour his share into a glass jar I’ve tied with a festive curl of red silk ribbon. Pièce de résistance: the painting of his name across the front of the jar, followed by the spraying of perfume so I can wave his Valentine’s Day card through the falling mist. (Oh, le sigh.)

On my way to cheerleading practice, I stop by the campus post office and hand my gift (and all my pride) to the postmistress. She looks at the name on the jar and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You don’t say…” she says and smiles knowingly as I wave goodbye.

I spend the next 24 hours in fits and knots of anxiety. The phone rings, and it’s never for me. My campus mailbox is empty at dinner time. I cover my head with my pillow and commence the practiced art of indignant sulking.

At 9 or so, the telephone rings, and it’s the boy. My roommate winks and discretely leaves the room.

“Did you send me a jar of chocolates today through campus mail?” the boy asks without saying hello. He sounds like he’s smiling, but I can’t quite tell for sure.

“Maaaybe,” I say. I hope I sound coy enough to disguise my dripping, crawling, aching swirl of nervousness.

“Did you also maaaybe spray that chocolate with perfume?” he asks.

There is only the slightest pause. And then, at least five males erupt with laughter on the other end of the phone line. I picture them all, yucking it up at my mortified expense.

“Whatever scent you wear,” I barely hear him say, “It tastes a lot like bug spray.”

~*~

And so: Valentine’s Day was not always my favorite holiday. There are many, many disastrous stories akin to the one above. You’ll either have to serve me a few shots of tequila and cross your fingers or wait until next Valentine’s Day to hear more.

In the meantime, let’s just leave it with this public service announcement: Don’t be an idiot on Valentine’s Day. It’s only a few short days away, so be sure to come to the breakfast table prepared to woo your sweetheart. It’s up to you to make sure he or she is pleased (rather than poisoned by 1990’s-era-“Rapture”-by-Victoria’s-Secret-coated chocolates) on Monday morning.

CNN.com posted Time Magazine’s “What NOT to Give” guide, and for the sake of preserving your own pride and embarrassment, I’m posting it now.

10 Ways to Say \”I Love You\”: The Most Ridiculous Valentine\’s Day Gifts on the Market

(Personally, I’d be fine with a chocolate Smart Car. The Snuggie-sutra is good for a laugh, but that’s probably all. Too much cotton-blend.)

Now, tell me: What’s the worst Valentine’s Day gift you’ve ever given or received? Sound off in the comments below. Let the embarrassing stories fly!

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Fun Ways to Antagonize Friends

Years ago, when I was but a wee college co-ed still trolling through life on my parents’ dime, I joined a social organization we Americans call a sorority. I know everyone loves good old American sorority lore from time to time: The pillow fights; the uncapping of the Sharpies to circle cellulite; the 2 AM hazing with the sheep and the surgical gloves; that scene from Animal House where Bluto climbs the ladder…

But you’re tired of those stories. No need to unpack them here.

Still, there’s one story I can tell you that (barely) applies to the rest of this post. It’s about “Senior Wills,” my sorority’s most formidable spring tradition.

Every May, just a few weeks before graduation, senior girls would give away their sorority paraphernalia in a casual ceremony designed to publicly humiliate pass the social torch to their friends. If, for example, you’d spent the last four years holding a secret for your dearest pal, Senior Wills was a no-holds-barred opportunity to share every reputation-wrecking detail of that secret before begging forgiveness by way of your favorite college sweatshirt.

Fun times, watching your friends die of shame. It was one of my favorite nights of the year.

A few days ago, I ran into something that (loosely) reminded me of Senior Wills. And then today, I ran into it again.

The Memetastic Award!

Jill over at Yeah. Good Times. recently created an award that two of my very dear bloggy friends—Amanda at Life is a Spectrum, and Harsha at H is for Happiness—have passed along to me. I can only assume they got together over cyber lunch to conspire against me discuss ways to honor my greatness, and in the end, I received this button of a tweaked-out kitten:

Kool for Kats!

I’m worried Amanda and Harsha will come after me, pounding their fists like goons and threatening to expose me for the fraud I am unless I promise to follow the ironclad rules that govern Jill’s Memetastic Award. I’m loathe to refuse them. I learned from my last brush with the law that I need to walk a tighter line, so here I am, doing as I’m bloody well told.

The Memetastic Rules!

1. You must proudly display the graphic Jill describes as “absolutely disgusting.” According to Jill: “It’s so bad that not only did I use COMIC SANS, but there’s even a little jumping, celebrating kitten down there at the bottom. It’s horrifying! But its presence in your award celebration is crucial to the memetastic process we’re creating here.”

2. You must list five things about yourself, and four of them must be bold-faced lies. Quality is not important.

3. You must pass this award to five bloggers you either like or don’t like or don’t really have much of an opinion about. As spoken by the great Jill: “I don’t care who you pick, and nobody needs to know why. You can give a reason if you want, but I don’t really care.”

4. If you fail to follow any of the above rules, Jill will hunt you down and harass you incessantly until, according to her, “you either block me on Twitter or ban my IP address from visiting your blog. I don’t know if you can actually do that last thing, but I will become so annoying to you that you will actually go out and hire an IT professional to train you on how to ban IP addresses just so that I’ll leave you alone. I’m serious. I’m going to do these things.”

5. Once you do the above, please link up to the Memetastic Hop so that Jill can keep track of where this thing goes and figure out who she needs to stalk.

The Memetastic Lies! (Plus One Truth.)

1. I look exactly like Russell Brand.

(via collider.com)

2. No, scratch that. I look exactly like Russell Stover.

(via commons.wikimedia.org)

3. No, wait. Wait. What I meant to say is I look like Russell Simmons.

(via sojones.com)

4. No, I’ve got it. Russell Crowe, circa The Gladiator.

(via solarnavigator.net)

5. I actually don’t look like any of the above. Because I’m a girl. Now hand me some lilies and a glass of Chablis.

The Memetastic Award Winners!

I bestow today’s Memetastic Award on the following lucky recipients because they live too far away to egg my car:

1)      Sunshine of Sunshine in London

2)      Erin of Legally Delish

3)      Jacque of Freedom in a Cup

4)      Angie of Thoughts Appear

5)      Jane of PlaneJaner’s Journey

…All wonderful, entertaining bloggers who deserve heaps of praise but will probably hate this award and retaliate by casting the old Sicilian malocchio in my direction. (I’m willing to take the risk, because of those goons I mentioned earlier…)

Enjoy, my memetastic friends. My most heartfelt congratulations to each of you.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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My (third) list of ridiculously great things

 

google image: 0.tqn.com

It snowed on my way home, frosting and glazing the streets into a slick of black ice. Just a mile from my house, I saw a man running through the bitter cold with a sturdy German Shepherd by his side. I did a double-take—not at the guy, but at the dog. She looked just like my sweet old girl, Bosco, and she carried a thick, 3 ft. long stick in her mouth. Her tail wagged away the snow. She was jubilant.

“See?” I thought. “That’s great. Now there’s happiness.” In my mind’s eye, I scratched the Bosco look-alike behind the ears and said, “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good girl!”

So ridiculously great. Ridiculous greatness.

It must be that time again…

~*~

Maura’s (Third) List of Ridiculously Great Things

1. The funny things my kids say now that they watch commercials.

A few days ago, the TV in our family room broke, so GB disconnected the small flat screen in our bedroom and moved it downstairs to watch the Steelers seize the AFC championship. (Woot!) The smaller screen size prompted H to wax pragmatic.

“How much did you pay for that TV?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” GB said. “${X} or something.”

“That’s a shame,” H said. “You should have called Progressive [Auto] Insurance. They would have let you name your price.”

2. One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia-Marquez

I’ve only just started to read this classic work, but I’m already hooked. The first sentence alone was enough to snag me:

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you win a Pulitzer Prize.

3. A Lego A Day Blog

Honestly? This blog is one of the best things I’ve ever seen. I’m not kidding.

Dan, the blog’s creator, is a 5^th grade teacher and gifted photographer with a slight obsession: Every day, he posts a photo of a Lego mini-figure doing some action-packed, usually outdoor activity. I cannot get enough of this site. Here’s a link to one of my recent favorites. Just click—it’s absolutely worth it. But be sure you have some time to spare, because trust me, you’ll want to keep browsing once you get there.

4. Those “easy” loads of laundry.

I’m talking about the all-towel/all-jeans loads, with not a sock or pair of underwear in sight.

5. And speaking of jeans…

By some genius stroke of luck, I pulled a pair of Ann Taylor Loft jeans off the clearance rack and they fit perfectly—my favorite pair of jeans in all of my 36 years. Price? $11. Ridiculous greatness.

6. Le Jolie’s Worldwide Tour  via Blurt

Have you ever come across something you wish you’d thought of first? Something, thy name is The Jolie Pez Project. About five months ago, Omawarisan, the hilarious mastermind behind Blurt, purchased an Angelina Jolie action figure from eBay for the express purpose of mailing her around to “save the world” and also visit bloggers he knows. My friend Wendy (from Herding Cats in Hammond River) recently hosted Le Jolie on the Canadian leg of her tour. (Wendy dedicated three whole posts to the visit. Here’s part 1.) Visit The Jolie Pez Project to see what other exotic climes Plastic Ms. Brad Pitt has visited.

7. Lego Ohio Stadium via Paul Janssen

Photo by Paul Janssen

Personally, I’d like to make the case for hosting Le Jolie here in Columbus. THE Ohio State University’s Paul Janssen (associate professor of physiology and cell biology and associate professor in cardiovascular medicine) spent the last two years building an exact replica of Ohio Stadium—out of Legos. (Read ESPN’s post.) I want Le Jolie to stand on the “O” at the 50 yard line. I don’t know Paul Janssen, but why should that stand in the way of making this magic happen? I’ll have Le Jolie’s people call his people.

8. The Decemberists’ new album, The King is Dead

You either love or hate these guys. I fall in the “blushingly adore” camp thanks to their poetic lyrics and smart compositions. Give their first single a try: “Don’t Carry It All”

9. My new laptop

It arrived Monday, and will be imaged and ready for use by the end of today. I haven’t taken it for a test drive yet, but for God’s sake, it has to be better than the piece of crap I’ve been using.

10. Valentine’s Day

For all you lovers out there…our favorite day is just 20 days away. Start writing your sonnets now.

Want more? Read Ridiculously Great List One, and Ridiculously Great List Two.

Have your own list of ridiculously great things? Sound off below. Bloggers love comments, especially me, so gimme the goods.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Daft Punk is playin’ at my house, a-my house.

I have some pimping to do. That’s why I’m wearing these shoes—so you’ll know I mean business.

(google image from http://www.trade-show-guru.com)

As you’re reading this, I’m working my way through 36×37 assignment #24—or what my friend Supergoddess has dubbed my week-long “techie break.” Instead of blogging or tweeting or texting or facebooking or checking work e-mail and the like, I’m doing other dorky/awesome things I’ll tell you about next week.

That’s where the shoes come in; I need to pimp what’s going to happen here while I’m away.

1) I’m not here, I’m there.

I’m guest-blogging today at Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages (Twitter: @amandahoving). Amanda has completed a novel, and now she’s preparing to send it aloft to a handful of agents. Meanwhile, she has asked a few bloggers to write about finding inspiration in unexpected places. I’m honored and excited that she thought of me for the series, and I’m looking forward to meeting her readers. Be sure to visit Amanda and me today, then take time to spin through her excellent blog—it’s truly one of my favorites.

(Don’t worry, I’ll remind you at the bottom of this post. That’s right; I tend to keep my pimp hand strong.)

2) And while I’m there, a few guest bloggers are here.

They’re watching the house. They’re keeping the shop. They’re checking the mail and feeding the fish. I’ve stocked the freezer with delicious Jeni’s Ice Cream, and I’ve ordered them to make themselves at home. I hope you’ll be neighborly, chat them up a bit, then stop by their places for a while.

Here’s an at-a-glance of what’s coming this week. Be sure to check back daily; you don’t want to miss a word from these funny and illustrious friends:

Tuesday – Sunshine from Sunshine in London

Wednesday – Todd Pack from Todd Pack’s Messy Desk

Thursday – Wendy from Herding Cats in Hammond River

Friday – Jane from Planejaner’s Journey

3) And now, for something that is seemingly everywhere…

FYI, I’ve hidden an Roadside Shoes! Easter Egg in one of the guest posts! I hope you enjoy it.

Excellent.

Now. Look at me, then look at my pimp shoes. If they don’t remind you to read my guest-post at Amanda’s Wrinkled Pages, maybe this link will.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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The Benefits of Brace Face

(google image from kiferdentalspecialist.com)

This time of year, working moms book their weekends with play dates. It’s the fastest way we know to repay all the families who occasionally welcome our kids into their homes for birthday parties and after-school Lego building.

That’s why I’ve parked my car in front of Tracy and Jim’s house. My boys are playing with theirs today, and I’ll repay the favor on my next day off. It’s noon, and now I’m hustling up their driveway.

I hear a car horn beep. When I turn, a police officer waves at me.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” he says as he pulls himself from the cruiser.

I don’t answer. I know enough to never admit to anything—especially the fact I don’t how fast I was going. It’s a trick I learned in my 20s from an article in GB’s Maxim Magazine.

“You were going 35, then 40 miles per hour. These streets are 25, you know,” he chides. “I’ll need your license and registration…when you have a moment, that is.”

I fumble for my wallet.

“Is this your car?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“And is this your house?”

“No, officer, it’s not.”

“Are you visiting someone?”

“I’m picking up my boys. They’re having a play date.”

“Well, don’t let me hold you up. I can see you’re in a hurry. Go ahead and get them, I’ll wait.”

I sigh, but I smile to show I’m still in control of myself. The officer gives me a funny look, then chuckles.

So I walk again up the driveway and ring the doorbell. When Jim opens the door, he notices the cruiser before he notices me. “Don’t worry,” I assure him. “That cop is here for me.”

~*~

When I admit to Jim and Tracy that I was speeding, they laugh it off. “That’s the problem with this neighborhood,” Jim says. “These guys have nothing else to do.”

I nod and laugh a little. I don’t mention that he was right to pull me over. Good God. 40mph in a neighborhood full of kids. I hate when people do that. What was I thinking! I’m absolutely mortified.

“Well, the kids are playing downstairs,” Jim says. “Why don’t you work things out with that guy, and when he’s gone, just come on back.”

I can’t tell you how grateful I am. No mom wants to explain to her children how and why she broke the law.

So I turn on my heels and walk back toward the officer. He’s writing something on a notepad and holds up a finger to keep me from approaching the vehicle. I stand idiot-like on the sidewalk, turning around every second or so to make sure my sons aren’t watching from the window.

Eventually, the officer steps out of the cruiser again. “I’m giving you a warning this time,” he says. “Remember: residential streets are 25, and this isn’t the Indy 500.”

I blink. “A warning? Not a ticket?”

He pats my shoulder. “That’s right, kid. Slower next time.”

~*~

I can thank my braces for this.

The moment I walked out of my orthodontist’s office in October, I noticed something strange: Brace Face = special treatment! It’s like I’ve landed on some kind of Tinsel Teeth VIP list, because with braces, suddenly I get free stuff. People actually smile, say hello and get chatty. They hold doors and tell me to go ahead of them in line. At the bakery, they hand me two free samples of delicious coffee cake, while everyone else gets just one. At first I thought this sudden sea change was the result of my natural charm, but the fact is, I’m not that charming.

Just last week, for example, I buzzed through the Starbucks drive-thru to grab an iced coffee for GB. When I pulled up to the window, the barista made me laugh before he handed me my drink. When I pulled out my wallet, he shook his head. “It’s on the house,” he said. “Have a good one!”

Nice. It was my third free Starbucks since October. Do you know how many free drinks I used to snag before I got adult braces? Not many, friend. Not many.

Still, there’s a downside to Brace Face.

Last week, GB and I met at House of India to enjoy a quick plate of curry chicken. It was so tasty, I almost cried as I chewed bite after bite of lemon rice. As we were waiting for our check, I smiled at GB. “Are my braces ok?” I asked. “They’re not yellow from the rice, are they?”

“They look fine,” he said. “But it’s dark in here.”

A few minutes later, I slipped behind the wheel of my car and pulled a tube of lipstick out of my purse. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I gasped in horror.

I texted GB right away. “My braces are neon yellow!”

He hadn’t pulled out of the parking lot yet. I saw him pick up his text and start laughing.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with this response: “I’ll just have to call you ‘Sweet Neon.’”

Sweet Neon, indeed. And now you know the real story behind the speeding incident. I flashed a federal-safety-yellow smile at the officer, and won myself a sympathy vote.

Whatever, guy. I’ll take it.

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The World’s Most Ridiculous Vocal Duets

We all have our prejudices. Here’s mine: I cannot tolerate vocal duets.

It’s hard to explain. Even if the musical arrangement is perfect, and the first vocalist is spot-on, a second vocalist is too much for me. I can’t process the sudden distraction of a singer appearing out of nowhere, grabbing the mic, and interrupting a good thing. It’s too Kanye-West-Imma-Let-You-Finish for my taste, and I seriously cannot take it.

Plus, more often than not, a duet is attached to some sort of melodramatic love story. Trust me, I’m a sucker for a good love song. But two people singing about love to each other? Preposterous. Get a room, already.

Do me a favor. Don’t admit that your favorite song is “Islands in the Stream,” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, or I will judge you for that, and I won’t judge kindly.

~*~

Here’s why I’m wasting your time with this issue: While baking Christmas cookies on Saturday night, this track popped up on Pandora’s Christmas channel…

David Bowie/ Bing Crosby – Little Drummer Boy

For the record: I dig Bowie—including the Ziggy Stardust years—so I swallowed my loathing for vocal duets and listened intently. Truly, I gave it the old college try.

As my colleague Jim said, “You can even see how uncomfortable it is on the video.”

He’s right. And so I got angry.

“This will not stand,” I thought. “I must do my part. I must forge a campaign to make sure this kind of travesty never, ever happens again.”

That’s why I’m here. I’m here for the cause.

~*~

There’s not much I need to say to state my case. I’ll let Exhibits A-C speak for themselves.

Magnet featuring Gemma Hayes – Lay Lady Lay

GB has a great recording of the Bob Dylan original. It’s saved on his Sirius satellite radio, and I think I love it because of how the DJ introduces it: “And now: The sound of Bob Dylan trying to get laid.”

Ha!

But this version? I can’t…I don’t… (Sigh.) I’m just speechless.

I like Magnet’s contribution to the project. But what’s this Gemma Hayes business? What a quick way to ruin a really great rendition.

Bob. How could they do this to you.

Jesse Malin/Bruce Springsteen – Broken Radio

Funny thing about GB—he knows my hatred for vocal duets, and so he has started to collect them.

The first time he played this track for me, he grinned the whole way through my horrified, confounded reaction.

When Jesse Malin kicks off the first verse, you think, “Meh. Let’s change the station.”

But then? Out of nowhere? The Boss! And he’s perfect. He sings, and you don’t want him to stop. But more importantly, you pray to all things holy that Jesse won’t grab the mic again.

When he does, you’re left with no choice but to question right from wrong, up from down, and the whole sorry state of the universe.

Wyclef Jean/Maxi Pries – Wild World

This is my very favorite example of musical collaboration gone wrong. Again, it’s part of the GB collection.

“You’ve got to hear this,” he said when he first found the track. “I like Wyclef, but what is he trying to do here?”

It begins with Wyclef setting the scene. I’m thankful for that, or I would never have figured it out for myself:

[Wyclef]: Wyclef is sitting here playing the guitar/Rhyming with Maxi Pries/Maxi Pries you need to tell her a-geh-hen.”

[Maxi]: Don’t go…

[Wyclef]: Tell her, Maxi…

[Maxi]: Don’t go…

[Wyclef]: Tell her …

Oh, friends. It gets worse. So much worse.

[Maxi]: Oooo, baby, baby it’s a wild world…

[Wyclef]: Oh ho ho ho ho ho ho

[Maxi]: It’s hard to get by just upon a smile girl

[Wyclef]: Yeah!

Honestly, it’s absurd.

I want to call Wyclef. Text him. Tap him on the back and say ruefully, “Wyclef. What exactly is your goal? Just what do you want to accomplish with this?”

I tell you, it’s more tragic than the Rob Thomas/Carlos Santana catastrophe of 1999.

~*~

Granted, I will make concessions. Take this track, for example.

Stevie Nicks & Tom Petty – Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around

As much as I want to protest this song in theory, I can’t because it’s fantastic.

But the rest? I’ll insist that a boycott is in order. If you doubt me at all, allow me to remind you of this:

Frank Sinatra & Bono – I’ve Got You Under My Skin

Bono. You know I love you. But it should not be like this. No, never like this.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: Fun Facts About Robots. No, I’m serious.

It’s not that I don’t have anything to write about, because actually I do. I completed a big 36×37 assignment this weekend, and I’m still working on the angle I want to take with the story.

So. Since I’m mulling things over, I asked the boys to come up with a topic for today’s post, and here’s what they gave me: Weird facts about robots.

Fine.

• In 1939, Westinghouse made Elektro, the world’s first humanoid robot. That seven-foot-tall walking machine had a whopping 700 word vocabulary. Hot, right? It must be, because it was featured in the 1960 B movie Sex Kittens Go to College, featuring Conway Twitty.
• Robots have their own trade union in Japan.
• By the way, here’s what the Japanese are working on:

google image courtesy of jeffkatz.typepad.com

(See other photos and videos of giant robot statues.) 

• A table tennis robot is your fastest way to an improved table tennis game. One week of steady practice with a robot equals about six months of practice against, say, a human. Do you know what this means? It means that robots want to play table tennis with us. Game on, Optimus Prime.
• Speaking of Transformers, Megan Fox is not real. She’s C-3PO in drag, and that explains why she’s so shiny and irritating.
• Robots don’t celebrate their birthdays.
• But they should. Because, wouldn’t you want to go to Plex’s (from Yo Gabba Gabba) birthday party? (DJ Lance Rock would be there.)

google image courtesy of coachhousegifts.com

• “Robot” comes from the Czech word “robota” which means “forced work or labor.” However, the name “Robert” means nothing of the sort.
• Radiohead’s “Paranoid Android” is fantastic.

• Hans Moravec, founder of Carnegie Mellon’s Robotics Institute, believes that robots will emerge as their own species by 2040, complete with feelings and expectations. Unlike those bitchy Fem-bots.

Ta da! Whatever the boys want, the mama delivers. Be sure to stop by tomorrow. Assignment #20 was a good one, and I can’t wait to tell you about it.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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