IMPROVEMENT IN PROGRESS
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
PARDON OUR DUST
(aka... I'm waiting for and idea to hit me...)
18 August 2008
14 March 2008
Satan's Return Through the Butt Pocket
Picture at left: my cute butt kicking my boyfriend cute butt at Dance Dance Revolution.... or so I like to delude myself into thinking...
“Moo-om!” I yelled from the top of the stairs. Someone once told me that true whining was being able to make a one syllable word into two syllables. “These butt pockets make me feel unconscious!”
“Self-conscious, you mean?” my mother calmly answered from downstairs.
“Oh yeah,” I giggled at my mistake.
All right, all right, so besides my obvious wording blunder, my point remains. While I may be taking things a little too far in saying that butt pockets are Satan’s return, whoever masterminded what I like to call the “butt pocket” is certainly off my Christmas list. Not to mention I do not think that the apocalypse can be much worse than looking at my butt pockets in the mirror.
Before continuing my rant, let me define my term “butt pockets.”
Butt pocket: the hideous pouch attachment on the rear end of ladies’ pants.
See, here’s the thing. Men can have butt pockets because their butts are already smaller than women’s. Men also like to keep things in their back pockets, wallets, phones, etc, making butt pockets a useful attachment. They are not consumed with how much their butts stick out from the straight line of their backs. Women however, as any man who has sat with a woman in a dressing room can attest, are completely obsessed with how a pair of pants portrays their derrière. With this known fact, who in their right mind would ever design a pant that makes a woman’s butt look larger than she already thinks it is?
That’s exactly what the butt pocket does. Not only is it extra fabric added on to the rear of the pant but after one washing, the corners of the butt pockets never lie flat again. Thus, in addition to an extra inch of butt from the butt pocket fabric, a woman ends up with four little tails poking out of her behind. Not attractive. I go from store to store thinking, “These butt pockets will be different. These butt pockets will fulfill the decorative purpose they were designed for.” Time after time, the butt pockets fail me. What is a girl to do?
The obvious male response to this question is to put the pocket to use. If we followed that advice, however, what would happen to our fashionable purses? Or the chocolate mints we keep in those purses for the on-the-spot blood sugar drop? We could not keep those in our pockets because they would melt. And the purse... the purse is an accessory like a necklace or earrings but without the purpose of holding our necessary items, it becomes a null and void object. This designates only one other use for butt pockets and, trust me guys, as flattering as it is that you want to touch our butts, we do not want your hands in our pockets. Which leaves us with what? A useless pocket that adds an inch of substance to the most conscientious area of our bodies.
“Self-conscious, you mean?” my mother calmly answered from downstairs.
“Oh yeah,” I giggled at my mistake.
All right, all right, so besides my obvious wording blunder, my point remains. While I may be taking things a little too far in saying that butt pockets are Satan’s return, whoever masterminded what I like to call the “butt pocket” is certainly off my Christmas list. Not to mention I do not think that the apocalypse can be much worse than looking at my butt pockets in the mirror.
Before continuing my rant, let me define my term “butt pockets.”
Butt pocket: the hideous pouch attachment on the rear end of ladies’ pants.
See, here’s the thing. Men can have butt pockets because their butts are already smaller than women’s. Men also like to keep things in their back pockets, wallets, phones, etc, making butt pockets a useful attachment. They are not consumed with how much their butts stick out from the straight line of their backs. Women however, as any man who has sat with a woman in a dressing room can attest, are completely obsessed with how a pair of pants portrays their derrière. With this known fact, who in their right mind would ever design a pant that makes a woman’s butt look larger than she already thinks it is?
That’s exactly what the butt pocket does. Not only is it extra fabric added on to the rear of the pant but after one washing, the corners of the butt pockets never lie flat again. Thus, in addition to an extra inch of butt from the butt pocket fabric, a woman ends up with four little tails poking out of her behind. Not attractive. I go from store to store thinking, “These butt pockets will be different. These butt pockets will fulfill the decorative purpose they were designed for.” Time after time, the butt pockets fail me. What is a girl to do?
The obvious male response to this question is to put the pocket to use. If we followed that advice, however, what would happen to our fashionable purses? Or the chocolate mints we keep in those purses for the on-the-spot blood sugar drop? We could not keep those in our pockets because they would melt. And the purse... the purse is an accessory like a necklace or earrings but without the purpose of holding our necessary items, it becomes a null and void object. This designates only one other use for butt pockets and, trust me guys, as flattering as it is that you want to touch our butts, we do not want your hands in our pockets. Which leaves us with what? A useless pocket that adds an inch of substance to the most conscientious area of our bodies.
So, with newfound resolve from my latest pair of failed butt pockets, I set out to erradicate this fashion faux-pas from women's clothing. I ask you to get behind me... and just see how great my butt looks without those pesky pockets.
24 February 2008
An Icy Irony
Picture at left: Me attempting to fulfill my secret dream of being a professional figure skater... In the background, my friend Kristy actually being a professional figure skater :)
When choosing a college, one usually has a number of requirements a university must meet for the student to consider attending. For some teenagers, a requirement is exceptional food (a rarity these days). For others, a requirement may be a specific sport. And for most, the student’s major of interest is a must. For me, on the other hand, it was the weather.
I am “A Girl for All Seasons,” to make a run off of Robert Bolt’s famous play in two acts, “A Man for All Seasons.” Beginning with spring and ending with winter, I love each of the seasons for their own special characteristics: spring for the lovely shape my figure takes on as I inevitably give up one of my favorite fatty foods for Lent, summer for the way this newfound figure looks in a bathing suite (not to mention the fabulous barbeques), fall for the ability to cover up with a heavy sweater the weight I gained during the summer months from all those barbecues, and winter because I never have to shave my legs due to the fact I wear pants all season. Honestly, each season coincides perfectly with the others in regards to food, the substance of which my life revolves around.
Thus, when I was participating in my own college search, a university in an area that experiences all seasons was a must. I looked in Minnesota, the state of my birth, but could not fathom living in a place with only two seasons: the “my scarf is soggy from my nose running all over it but I cannot take it off for fear that my nose will fall off from frostbite” winter from September to May and the “a force field of humidity is strangling me” summer from May to August. Cincinnati fared better than Minnesota with its delightfully crisp fall seasons and delectable spring and summer seasons, however, the “just enough snow to get you up early to watch in anticipation the ticker at the bottom of the TV screen to see if school is cancelled only to be disappointed as the names skip right from ‘St. There is an Inch of Snow on the Ground so we Have to Call off School High’ to ‘We Get a Snow Day and You Don’t Academy,’ leaving you out of luck and now late for school because you were watching television for so long” winters turned me off immediately. Then came Kentucky. Kentucky, with all the perks of every season without even the smallest chance of snow days making there be no chance for my hopes to be dashed; it seemed the perfect solution to my weather dilemma. [Sarcastic laugh here] If only I had known…
As it turns out, two hours south does decrease the chances of snow. In fact, we get very little snow around here. What I did not count into my equation, however, is that while two hours south gives a temperature change too warm for snow, it does not raise the temperature above freezing, making my part of Kentucky the prime candidate for something much worse than snow… ice.
And so here I am, in Kentucky, spending every day of winter (which at least has the decency to stick within its three month allotment) gripping to my roommate’s arm as we slip and slide our way through campus (which of course is built on a series of hills of colossal proportions), leaving me with only one important lesson to pass on to you.
Screw the seasons, I’m moving to Bermuda.
13 January 2008
The Dead Fish Handshake
Photo on left : RIP Elmo....
“… And so, let us pray together in the words the Jesus gave us…”
And the dreaded words are said. I watch the man next to me discreetly (or so he thinks) wipe the sweat off his hands and onto his pants. The little girl in front of me sneezes into hers (Note to self: avoid any sign of peace with the contaminated appendage - sometimes I wonder if there was a cold and flu season when St. Peter introduced the holding of hands and communal sharing of the wine cup into the Catholic mass). I look to either side of me where both of my pew neighbors are holding out their hands, elbows scrunched as close to their sides as possible (as if I wouldn’t see them) so as I have no choice but to reach and feel as if my shoulder is being popped out of its socket in this prayerful version of Tug-of-War. I clasp my fingers around my pew neighbors’ hands and wait for the return gesture… only to be affronted with the dreaded opposite: the dead fish handshake.
Let me preface this by saying that I have nothing personal against dead fish. In fact, with all due respect to the deceased “superclass” (phylum vertebrata, I found out – there’s my $32,000 education going to work), I love seafood. Thus, in all technicalities, a dead fish could be one of my favorite things in the world according to that last statement. So, to all those fish out there who are going to come out saying I am ichthyophobic (afraid of fish), my factoid about seafood proves the exact opposite.
Catholic mass is a 2000-year old tradition (give or take a few corrupt years and that whole Vatican II thing). The beloved “The Lord’s Prayer” aka “The Our Father,” a key component to not only the Catholic mass but also to many other Christian religious services, is older still, dating back to 1541 A.D. (The Catholic Encyclopedia, Volume IX). In Catholic elementary schools and Catholic religious education programs across the world, this prayer is one of the first, if not the first, prayers taught to the earth’s youngest parishioners. With this kind of emphasis put on such a prayerful tradition, one would assume few problems would be found with this particular aspect of mass. However, my experience has proven quite the opposite and it all revolves around dead fish.
Dead fish, while normally envisioned with utter disgust (not to mention that putrid odor that the dog forever reeks of following a trip to the lake where he/she finds a dead fish and proceeds to do the inevitable: roll all over it), actually have quite an important role in Biblical history. As Jesus gathers his apostles to follow Him, three are fisherman. Then, in the favorite story of every Sunday School teacher for children under the age of ten, Jesus’ division of the five fishes (dead, of course) and two loaves of bread among thousands of people cannot be forgotten. The people of Galilee lived on a lake, for Pete’s sake (just take a look at Minnesota where the opening day of the Fishing Season is the Superbowl of the summer); fishing was their lifeline.
I’d like to think that it is out of respect for this vital part of Biblical times that lies behind the “Lord’s Prayer” experience I endure each week. However, even my optimism cannot reach that far. So, I stand there in my shoulder-dislocating position to hold hands with two dead fish: limp, floppy and as impersonal a holding hands encounter as one can possibly achieve. I squeeze each person’s fingers a little harder, hinting as tactfully as I know how. Each neighbors’ fingers stiffen and I anxiously await the finger curl… nothing. Next, I pull my fingers away a bit, thinking my fellow “Our Father-ians” will feel as if they are dropping my hand and grasp hard to catch it… my hands fall against the pew in front of me with a bruising crash (note to self: do not fall off cliff in presence of fellow pew inhabitants). Bowing my head and hoping the glaring eyes of the parishioners I feel on the back of my head are simply my imagination, I quickly recite the remainder of the prayer with my hands folded across my stomach.
Since that dreadful “dropping of the hands,” I have added a long repertoire of tricks to encourage the parishioner next to me to actually hold my hand (luckily, none as noisy as the first). So, next time you are sitting in church and here someone furiously whisper “Stop pinching me already,” you will know I’m in town for the weekend, forever on my mission to save the Catholic mass from the tyrannical takeover of the Dead Fish Handshake…
And the dreaded words are said. I watch the man next to me discreetly (or so he thinks) wipe the sweat off his hands and onto his pants. The little girl in front of me sneezes into hers (Note to self: avoid any sign of peace with the contaminated appendage - sometimes I wonder if there was a cold and flu season when St. Peter introduced the holding of hands and communal sharing of the wine cup into the Catholic mass). I look to either side of me where both of my pew neighbors are holding out their hands, elbows scrunched as close to their sides as possible (as if I wouldn’t see them) so as I have no choice but to reach and feel as if my shoulder is being popped out of its socket in this prayerful version of Tug-of-War. I clasp my fingers around my pew neighbors’ hands and wait for the return gesture… only to be affronted with the dreaded opposite: the dead fish handshake.
Let me preface this by saying that I have nothing personal against dead fish. In fact, with all due respect to the deceased “superclass” (phylum vertebrata, I found out – there’s my $32,000 education going to work), I love seafood. Thus, in all technicalities, a dead fish could be one of my favorite things in the world according to that last statement. So, to all those fish out there who are going to come out saying I am ichthyophobic (afraid of fish), my factoid about seafood proves the exact opposite.
Catholic mass is a 2000-year old tradition (give or take a few corrupt years and that whole Vatican II thing). The beloved “The Lord’s Prayer” aka “The Our Father,” a key component to not only the Catholic mass but also to many other Christian religious services, is older still, dating back to 1541 A.D. (The Catholic Encyclopedia, Volume IX). In Catholic elementary schools and Catholic religious education programs across the world, this prayer is one of the first, if not the first, prayers taught to the earth’s youngest parishioners. With this kind of emphasis put on such a prayerful tradition, one would assume few problems would be found with this particular aspect of mass. However, my experience has proven quite the opposite and it all revolves around dead fish.
Dead fish, while normally envisioned with utter disgust (not to mention that putrid odor that the dog forever reeks of following a trip to the lake where he/she finds a dead fish and proceeds to do the inevitable: roll all over it), actually have quite an important role in Biblical history. As Jesus gathers his apostles to follow Him, three are fisherman. Then, in the favorite story of every Sunday School teacher for children under the age of ten, Jesus’ division of the five fishes (dead, of course) and two loaves of bread among thousands of people cannot be forgotten. The people of Galilee lived on a lake, for Pete’s sake (just take a look at Minnesota where the opening day of the Fishing Season is the Superbowl of the summer); fishing was their lifeline.
I’d like to think that it is out of respect for this vital part of Biblical times that lies behind the “Lord’s Prayer” experience I endure each week. However, even my optimism cannot reach that far. So, I stand there in my shoulder-dislocating position to hold hands with two dead fish: limp, floppy and as impersonal a holding hands encounter as one can possibly achieve. I squeeze each person’s fingers a little harder, hinting as tactfully as I know how. Each neighbors’ fingers stiffen and I anxiously await the finger curl… nothing. Next, I pull my fingers away a bit, thinking my fellow “Our Father-ians” will feel as if they are dropping my hand and grasp hard to catch it… my hands fall against the pew in front of me with a bruising crash (note to self: do not fall off cliff in presence of fellow pew inhabitants). Bowing my head and hoping the glaring eyes of the parishioners I feel on the back of my head are simply my imagination, I quickly recite the remainder of the prayer with my hands folded across my stomach.
Since that dreadful “dropping of the hands,” I have added a long repertoire of tricks to encourage the parishioner next to me to actually hold my hand (luckily, none as noisy as the first). So, next time you are sitting in church and here someone furiously whisper “Stop pinching me already,” you will know I’m in town for the weekend, forever on my mission to save the Catholic mass from the tyrannical takeover of the Dead Fish Handshake…
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