doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

This girl I used to play with as a kid would always try to disgust people by flipping her eyelids inside out. She often got the reaction she wanted from others, but I was never grossed out. Instead, I was impressed and jealous. Why can’t I do that?

I’ve seen a couple people who can roll their bellies, almost like rippling waves. Except it’s more like hairy flesh than sparkling water. But still, that’s pretty cool. Why can’t I do that?

On the Ellen show not too long ago, I caught an interview with Keira Knightley. I’m not her biggest fan to begin with, but she made me dislike her even more when she shared an accurate rendition of “Raindrops are falling on my head.” That she played on her teeth! As in, she hit her teeth with her fingernails and it actually sounded like a fucking song. What the hell, why can’t I do that?

I have this irrational fear that someday I’m going to be put on the spot and be asked to reveal my hidden talent. There will probably be prize money involved or a trip to Jamaica. Most likely I’ll have a camera pointed at me while an audience of thousands eagerly waits for me to dislocate my elbow or belch the alphabet.

And I’ll be forced to let them all down. Not because I don’t want to win. Which I very much do. But because I don’t have a hidden talent. None. Not even anything stupid or common. I just can’t do anything weird!

I’ve been on a quest for my hidden talent for a long time, waiting to discover that, perhaps, I can in fact beatbox with the best of them. So far that hasn’t happened. I can’t sing or dance, I can’t contort myself, I can’t create melodic bodily noises, I can’t even do a handstand. Yeah, I can roll my tongue, but so can 89% of the population.

I’m sure there are things I can do that not everybody can, but I’m looking for that one thing that will win me the cash prize or Jamaican vacation. Something that will make the audience gasp, laugh and applaude. It doesn’t have to be outstanding, but at least impressive.

So far I’ve lived my whole life without an ace in my pocket, a little thing to pull out when the party gets dull. Hell, I’d be happy to disgust people with flipped-out eyelids! But I’m not giving up, I must have a hidden talent somewhere. I’m sure it’s just…hidden.

Okay now share what your hidden talents are. Come on, don’t be embarrassed. Just imagine me, at home alone, trying to master your ridiculous talents. Because that’s exactly what I’ll be doing!

- Sleep in until 11 on the day of the gathering.

- Take a nap until 2.

- Sit around reading and messing around online until 3.

- Finally take showers and get dressed.

- Take recyclables to the recycling center so it’s not all sitting in the middle of the hall when company comes over.

- Stop at grocery store for essential ingredients.

- Drop food items at home.

- Go to Target to return table runner that looked silly on new coffee table and look for decent placemats. Also look for small bowls.

- Fail to find decent placemats or small bowls.

- Try Kohls.

- Fail.

- Try the dollar store.

- Buy ugly placemats that you end up liking later.

- Fail to find any small bowls. At all. None. Not even ugly ones.

- Call “dinner party” guests to ask if they can come at 5:30 instead of 5 as it is now 4:45 and you’re not even home yet.

- Get home and begin cooking.

- Realize, mid-chop, that what you thought was chicken is actually pork. Cease cooking.

- Call guests and ask them to come at 6:00 instead of 5:30.

- Run to store to buy chicken.

- Cook delicious meal that gets lots of compliments even though it’s over an hour late.

- Remember to put garlic bread in oven after meal has begun.

- Engage guests, who have already finished the rest of the meal, in small talk while the bread takes 15 minutes to cook instead of the suggested 5-7.

- After meal, in lieu of actual entertainment, show guests your new gadgetry and repeatedly discuss the potency of your McIntosh-apple-scented candle.

- Just before guests leave, remember cool apron you were supposed to wear that says “Whippin’ up something sexy.” Stage a picture:

Me: We haven’t seen your parents in awhile.
Him: Yeah, maybe we should have them over for dinner.
Me: Seriously? We don’t even have a table, how are we going to have your parents over for dinner?
Him: They won’t mind sitting on the couch.
Me: And eating off their laps?
Him: They’ll think it’s fun.
Me: Neither of us can cook.
Him: Yeah, but we’ll figure something out.

-Later-

Him: By the way, I invited my grandma to dinner too.
Me: We don’t even have enough seating for five!
Him: She can sit at the desk.
Me: Umm…

So we’re doing it. We deep-cleaned the apartment, bought a coffee table, looked up a simple recipe, and tonight we’re having three people over for dinner. In our little apartment. With no dining table. And no cooking skills to speak of.

But I bought Brad an apron that says “Whippin’ up something sexy” on the front, so I think everything will be just fine.

My friend Robin and I met for dinner tonight. At the restaurant, we were seated in this small closet-sized “room” that was closed off on three sides. The “room” had only two tables and about enough space between them for a skinny person to sidle through.

About five minutes after we sat down, a young couple was seated at the table next to ours. The cramped quarters seemed to necessitate an introduction, or at least an acknowledgement of the awkwardness. Instead, I spent the next half hour watching them out of the corner of my eye as they fondled each others’ hands and cooed endearing words over their potatoe skins and beer.

The more they fondled, the smaller our closet seemed to get. Why the nearly-enclosed space with only two small tables? Why seat us with this overly affectionate couple? By the time we had finished our meal I was convinced that the restaurant staff had intended for us all to have an orgy. Which obviously would have been impossible with only the three walls.

We may be willing to get it on with people we’ve never met. But certainly not with total strangers watching.

You may think that if you’re going to the eye doctor to get a pair of glasses, that you won’t need to answer any questions about your contacts. You would be wrong.

Be prepared to answer silly questions like: What kind of contacts do you wear? (Who pays attention!) And what’s your prescription? (No clue!) Can you give me any numbers from the prescription? (Um, 700? No? No such thing as 700? Then no, sorry.)

Also, they will ‘fit’ you for contacts, even though you’re only getting glasses, without asking or telling you. And it will you cost you an extra $15. And no, insurance doesn’t cover that.

However, when the doctor says “Wow, you sure have the blue eyes huh?” all will be forgiven.

I haven’t gotten a blue eyes comment in awhile. Felt good. And I ordered a pair of glasses! Photos to come.

Hey folks, Brad here. Just wanted to let all the wonderful visitors of Doahleigh know that we have a brand-new, fun and exciting feature to tell you about!

When you comment on a post (which we should all be doing on a regular basis!), you can check the box at the bottom below the form, which will tell the gears and robots behind the scenes to email you whenever there’s a new comment after yours. Basically you’ll be ’subscribed’ to that post, and you can be notified whenever someone responds to the discussion. Yay!

If you don’t want to be bothered, you just simply don’t check the box. We’re not looking to bother anyone here. We may be people-haters, but we’re not Doahleigh-reading-people-haters! You can also manage and delete any subscriptions once you’re sick and tired of hearing people tell you that your opinion about the Hooters restaurant sucks!

Ok, back to your regularly scheduled Shannon writings now! Bye folks!

Dear clothing manufacturers,
Please take note that ass graphics are no longer cool. I’m not sure they ever were, but anybody with any sense at all doesn’t want to use their ass to hold a conversation. When looking for a pair of comfortable pants for Pilates, I don’t want to find this on my ass when I get to the fitting room:

Seriously clothing manufacturers, nobody wants the words “CHILL OUT” across their butt. And even if there are a few crazies who do, can’t you make the exact same pair of pants sans ridiculous ass graphics? Think about those of us who want to be comfortable during Pilates, but don’t want to draw so much attention to our derrieres.

Also, ass graphics are not cute on underwear either. A small dainty skull on the front of Halloween panties might be cute, but a disaster like this on the back is definitely not:

Please clothing manufacturers, stop producing this filth. Things are so much cuter and so much more acceptable if they don’t have crap on the ass!

Sincerely,
Me

A radio announcer, doing a remote from the local Hooters (not local to Jackson, which doesn’t have a Hooters, but somewhere near Kalamazoo; I was traveling for work):

“Come out and have some famous Hooters hotwings! And of course there are Hooters girls everywhere. Just grab a beer and sit and stare at ‘em.”

I wasn’t sure if I hated him for so blantantly objectifying women as sexual objects (I know they choose to work there, but that’s a whole different argument for another time, so please don’t leave that in my comments unless you want to get into it (*Jason*)), or if I admired him for at least laying it out there and not pretending like it’s something other than exactly that.

For some reason this weird lady came to one of my work meetings today to talk about candles and candle capers… whateverthefuckthoseare. She was kind of standing in the middle of the room while she talked, and in between boring words like “burns for 65 hours” and “two capers for 15 dollars” she kept apologizing for having her back to people. As if we expected her to have two fronts. Yes, usually our guest speakers have two faces so nobody feels left out.

And then, as if I didn’t hate her enough with her candles and capers and her only one front, she started mispronouncing simple English words. Which she didn’t apologize for; just her lack of a second face.

specific=pacific
pumpkin=punkin
floral=fleural
mulberry=mawberry

Then I pushed her out the window so she’d stop talking.

(God why am I such a people-hating bitch?)

Update: I just looked it up, and it’s capper, not caper you crazy candle lady! Add that to the list.

This is why I love my boyfriend*:

Oh yeah, and also because he has this cat blanket:

Which he refuses to acknowledge is a cat blanket even though it is so obviously a blanket with two giant cats on it. It’s one of those things he’s had forever so he no longer notices it. To him, it’s just a warm blanket. To me, it’s totally his CAT BLANKET!

Hey babe, where’s your CAT BLANKET! Are you cold, let me get your CAT BLANKET! for you.

Last night, after finding the toolbox tucked comfortably under the covers in our bed, I took this picture and showed it to him. I truly think he saw the cats for the very first time.

And now I think we should name them.

*It’s a toolbox. In a bed! The hilarity!

Last night I crawled into bed with a laundry basket full of Brad’s folded clothes and some other loose articles, like his sweatshirt and a pair of his jeans. This is actually a pretty regular occurrence, going to bed with inanimate objects that belong to my boyfriend. Sometimes I have to push them off my side of the bed before I get in, but then they usually stay put. They don’t try to cuddle or anything, which is good, because I like my space when I sleep.

Brad tends to use our bed as a catch-all for his junk, and since I usually turn in before him, it’s all still caught there when I go to bed. And it’s not just his clothes. I’ve shared the bed with his magazines, backpacks, books, handheld game systems. Once I even curled up next to his toolbox. Okay not really, but someday I’m sure I’ll have to.

I suppose I could just remove the items from the bed before getting in, but I’m just not the type of person to clean up after others. I have a hard enough time picking up after myself; Brad’s on his own. Besides, it’s much more fun to listen to him fumble with it all in the dark when he finally does come to bed.

Plus, I sleep better with someone next to me anyway. Not touching me of course, but next to me. And if I can’t have Brad there the whole night, well then, I guess it’s okay to have his sweatpants stand in for awhile.

First, I have to admit that my primary reason for writing this review is to justify my reading of this book. I’ll read almost anything that’s placed in front of me, but I try to avoid all things Nicholas Sparks. I liked The Notebook, yes, but after reading Message in a Bottle, I decided I couldn’t stomach anymore Sparks. He activates my gag reflex like no other writer.

However, when a friend, who equally disliked Message in a Bottle, picked this up on one of our trips to the used book store, I decided to give Nick another go. My friend said she knew it was somehow tied to The Notebook, which I enjoyed, so I took a chance.

A bad chance, as it turns out. I found the characters bland and the plot sluggish. The love story, while more realistic and certainly more common than that of The Notebook, is not nearly as inspiring. The plot didn’t move at a pace that held my interest, and it wasn’t until near the end that I really latched on. Sparks is lucky I gave him that long to hook me.

Worst of all, it was entirely too predictable. A novel can get away with predictability if the story leading up to the twist is also interesting and grabbing. However, I found Sparks to be almost insulting in his assumption that the reader can’t see right through his guise. He strings you along like you have no idea what’s really going on, then asks you to act shocked as he slowly reveals his secrets.

While this novel isn’t the worst I’ve read (that Bottle book was even worse!), I’d be forced to give it a single star if I had my own rating system. Which I don’t. Instead, I’ll just suggest that unless you like cheesy predictable love stories, you might find something better to read on another shelf.

I wrestled all morning with whether to write something 9/11 related or try something lighthearted and completely unrelated. I went with 9/11. Not because my words make any difference to anyone in the world, and not because I think I’ll ever forget where I was that day, but because it’s five years later and I’m still trying to get caught up.

My experience that day was very different than most. I didn’t know anyone directly involved or lose anybody close to me. But I also didn’t have access to very much information when it all was happening. Which meant that it took weeks for me to really feel what everyone else felt on that day. To really see and believe it. And five years later I still feel like I’m missing something.

The summer of 2001 I worked in Yellowstone National Park as a front desk clerk at Canyon Lodge. It was an exciting summer, but by the beginning of September most of the staff had gone home. My sister and I remained with a handful of others who weren’t going back to school in the Fall. While Andrea and I shared a room in the employee dorms, she had recently been bunking down the hall with her summer love. And since my summer love had already left me with a broken heart, a friend of ours had taken up temporary residence in my sister’s bed. She’s the one who broke the news to me.

A knock at the door early in the morning woke us up. A phone call for Sarah, the friend, on the community phone in the hallway. I rolled over to go back to sleep. Ten minutes later Sarah woke me up, sat on the floor by my bed, and said, very calmly, ”A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”

I was naive and didn’t even fully know what the World Trade Center was, and I certainly didn’t suspect the plane crash indicated anything more than a terrible accident. But I got out of bed and trucked over to the front desk with Sarah to get more news. Nobody knew anything. Yellowstone didn’t have much in the way of connection to the world back then. No internet and only a few TVs here and there, maybe a radio, and whatever you could find in the newspaper.

Nobody really knew anything all morning. Sarah and I found a tv in our boss’ room and were able to watch that for about 10 minutes. That’s when I got my first glimpse of the disaster. Both buildings were burning, but it was total chaos, and I didn’t grasp much in those few minutes before I had to start work.

Aside from a few newspaper photos, that’s the only footage I saw of that day for the next two and a half weeks. My sister and I left Yellowstone the last week of September and drove home to Michigan. It wasn’t until we were home that we felt the impact of those events. We finally saw replays of the day’s footage on the news, we saw pictures in the paper, we read about it online. I had known what had happened, but I didn’t really get it until I was exposed to it everywhere I turned. We were isolated in Yellowstone, sheltered from the reality of the devastation. I knew what happened, I knew the lives lost, the tragedy. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know how it affected everyone and everything in this country. It wasn’t until I got home that I really understood.

But that was two weeks later. Even though it was still all too fresh in everyone’s mind, it wasn’t that day. By then they had some answers, some leads, some action. By then it was more about “why did this happen” and less about ”oh my god, what is happening?” Because I was so cut off from media, I didn’t experience the tragedy with the rest of the country. And I feel like I’ve been playing catch up ever since.

Brad has a DVD that commemorates 9/11 and shows a lot of the coverage from that day. We’re going to watch it tonight, and maybe I can try to further understand what was going on the day I was stuck behind the front desk with so little connection to the world. And with no answers for all the park visitors who also wanted to know, My God what is happening?

At the dentist yesterday, my first visit in over five years, I found out a lot more than I expected. I don’t have any cavities, which was a relief, but there were a number of other things I found out about my mouth. The dentist wants me to have my top two wisdom teeth removed; he wants to smooth out my front teeth (mostly for aesthetic reasons: I have a minor chip from an unfortunate encounter with a yarn needle a couple years ago); he thinks I might subconciously clench my teeth, causing my frequent headaches; and lastly, he said I open my mouth too much.

Essentially.

What he said is that the ligaments around my mouth are strained, and he continued with a litany of things I should be careful of. He went on and on about how I shouldn’t chew much gum, I should take smaller bites when I eat, I should watch how far I open my mouth when I yawn.

And I all I could think the whole time was, Oh my god he totally thinks I’m a slut who gives blow jobs all day long!