The 8th Grade Dance - For Lola.

At the end of 8th grade, we had a big dance called... the 8th Grade Dance. It was full of much awkwardness and pre-teen-ness and fancy hair. I'd never had my hair done before and I told the hairdresser that I wanted a french braid. She curled up her lip in disgust and said that there was no way that I was getting a french braid- that I at least had to have the cooler, upside-down french braid with curls on the top of my head. (Incidentially, this is the same hairdresser who did my hair for my sister Alison's wedding and who made the same identical face when I told her I just wanted a sleek ponytail. Which I did not relent on that time.)
Anyway, integral to this dance, as with all dances through the eyes of a female, was finding the most fabulous dress. I found a white lacy deal, knee length and with cap sleeves. Upon arriving at school the next day, I came to find that one of my friends (who shall go nameless) had the bought the exact same dress. I, in my friend solidarity, thought, "Cool! We'll be like twins!" She did not think this. She got REAL mad. She asked me what day I got it and, when it turned out we had bought them on the same day, asked me WHAT TIME. Seriously?! Are you being serious here?! She was. We've lost touch...
So the day of the dance arrives. I'm upside-down french braided up with my lacy number on and surrounded by my girl friends because I only spoke to two boys prior to high school and them only because they were on Quiz Bowl with me. (My current coolness was carefully cultivated...) So we arrive at the dance and everyone is standing around being... awkward... and there is a large crowd around the punch bowl table because it's easier to pull off looking cool when you're DOING something than if you're just leaning against the cafeteria wall. I don't actually remember what I did all during the dance other than gossip with my friends, but I do know that we also spent some time near the punch bowl because I CLEARLY remember what happened AFTER the dance.
When the night finally ended (*sigh*) all of us girls went to our friend Erin's house for a SLEEP OVER!!! We had a crap-ton of sleepovers in middle school and high school. So, it comes out that there was rumor going around that the punch was SPIKED. My friends, being normal, laughed at this and forgot about it. I, on the other hand, began mulling this over in my brain. My thoughts followed some train close to this: "What if it really WAS spiked? I drank the punch. I've never drank alcohol. (You get a better feel for my emotions if you start raising your voice to get more and more hysterical as my wonderings continue.) I might have just drank alcohol! I might be DRUNK! I think I'm DRUNK and I don't even know it!!!!! THIS IS TERRIBLE!!!!!"
I'm feeling sick now. Not, like, drunk sick (clearly) but the sick I feel when my hypochondriac-ism kicks in and I feel all dizzy and queasy in my stomach. So, I tell my friends, "You guys, what if the punch really was spiked and I'm drunk and I don't even know it?" And what do my friends do? WHAT DO THEY DO? They LAUGH! They make fun of me for the rest of the night. And for the next 15 years, thus far.

THE END.

clarification.

So I've been feeling guilty about using The Shack as an example for my previous blog. I feel as though I should clarify a bit. I've got love for my Jesus, but I'm not so much a fan of Christian fiction. Which is why The Shack didn't bowl me over. Loving Jesus does not equal loving Christian fiction which, to me, neither teaches (since it's someone's interpretation) nor entertains due to the aforementioned blog's details of literature lack-luster. If you want some good Christian fiction, read the Narnia Chronicles.
So although this entry is a bit bland, I now feel better. Also, my husband is watching Alien vs. Predator which is even more excruciatingly mind-numbing than it sounds, and now seemed as good a time as any to throw on a new entry.

Thoughts on mindless reads.

Once in a while it's nice to read a mindless, quick read book. I'm glad there are authors out there who write books such as this. However, I have found that finding a decent mindless read is as involved as finding a decent intellectual read. Here are the three kinds of mindless book categories I have found:

1) Exhibit A- The Shopaholic series by Sophie Kinsella. In this type of mindless read, which I will call the Best Form, the author understands that we're not going for any awards here. There's no attempt to be deeply intellectual or artistic with the language. However, the writing is elevated beyond than that of, say, a high school freshman, which leads to...

2) Exhibit B- The Shack. In this version, which I will call the Eh-Form, the content is good, and the author still isn't going for any literary turn of phrase recognition, but it reads like an entry level college essay and some of the sentences make you cringe in the execution. In defense of this book, it isn't really a mindless read, but can be found in a grocery store which, in my book, still falls into a related category. And...

3) Exhibit C- There's a (slight) chance I might be going to hell, which was the reason I wrote this entry in the first place. I got this book from the teacher's lounge and it looked like a funny, mindless read. Sadly, this book fell into the third and worst category, the Real Bad Form. In this type of book, the writing is poor to begin with, but to make things worse, the similes, metaphors, and descriptions make an attempt to be witty and clever in an uncomfortably painful way. Take these examples:

"Anything synthetic will not only cling to your wet, leaking skin like a hickey on the neck of a high school senior on picture day but will cost you more than a reckless cocaine habit in dry cleaning."

"... new businesses popped up all over town like pimples on the forehead of puberty."

"By the time she got to Kate's, she was sweating more than a chubby man in a backyard cage fight testing out his moves from a $19.98 Fast 'N Furious Head Bustin' Street Smarts DVD recently purchased from Wal-Mart and she wanted nothing more than to have a little face time with a glacier."

Aaaaaaand I was done. At page 20.

It sounded like a good idea.

Velcro rollers are even more painful than you would assume by imagining, well, rolling your hair in velcro.

Brilliant beginnings.

For Christmas, Alison took all of the old film reels my parents took of us when we were babies and had them put on dvd's. I've been watching them today and have come to realize the seriously unbelievable amounts of my own bathwater I ingested as an infant. In cups. Scoop it up, drink it down. I'm pretty sure it made me as smart as I am today. Super smart babies drink their own bathwater.

Business.

If I owned a little downtown shop, I'll tell you what I would NOT sell: fairy figurines.

On houses.

Ryan and I are thinking about buying a larger house. Here is why I am melodramatically announcing that I doubt the fruition of this plan:

1. In the last 20 years, a crap-ton of people were misled into believing that wood paneling was a good choice.

2. Also, fireplaces are apparently on the outs...

3. ...however the ones that do exist are wall-sized gigantor and painted white.

4. I want an old farmhouse and Ryan does not. Because he is logical and I am not.

5. Everyone likes carpet. They like it so much that they crap it all up by what appears to be dirt strewn about and crushed into it. Get damn wood floors.

6. EVERYBODY likes wallpaper. People who like wallpaper go ALL OUT. They wallpaper the WHOLE house. No- I will not buy your wallpaper hell.

7. I think I already mentioned the wood paneling. I will mention it again.

I am bitter about it.

Word to the wise.

If you should so ever find an apparently abandoned pink, velour hoodie on the school playground and you pick it up to take it to the lost and found and realize that it smells like s***, chances are that, upon closer inspection, you will find that this is because...
someone
wiped
their
a**
with
it.

Some helpful v.p. advice.

Ooooh. This was a LONG dry spell. I'm afraid I've lost all of my groupies. *sigh*

A letter to Sarah Palin.

Dear Sarah Palin,
First of all, I want to tell you that I think that it's cool that you're a governor of a big state and all. In a cold state too, which I give you props for because I freaking HATE being cold. You're probably cold all the time. That would suck.
Also, I want to tell you that I feel bad that you're getting all ripped up because you don't know a lot of government... stuff... I'm pretty sure that a lot of other governors don't know a ton either.
HOWEVER, since you are running for vice president under a really old potential president, I need to tell you, as a fellow American sister, that I make a lot of fun of you behind your back. I have forgone any Saturday night plans the last couple of weeks to catch Tina Fey also make fun of you.
I do wish to state that I watched your debate and was somewhat surprised that you (sort of) held your own. On the other hand, the whole Joe Six-Pack thing is REALLY sexist and ridiculous sounding and I was annoyed that you kept diverting all of the questions. Mostly though, I would like to inform you that the politically correct way to speak of people with special needs is PERSON FIRST. For instance, "I have a child with special needs," which is the opposite of your statement that you have a special needs child which pissed me right off because you should know this both as a v.p. candidate and as a MOTHER. That was lame.
I do think that you are pretty though. And you wore high heels through the entire debate and I bet the floor was hard on your feet because I know it would have been on mine.

Sincerely,
Sara A. Stockinger

Mostly, it comes down to this...

I've gone through a couple of temper-tantrum-ish episodes with wedding related nonsense in the last few weeks, (one involving me face down on the bed whining, "I don't KNOW how long it will take me to get ready! Don't you think if I KNEW I would have already DONE the photographer's timeline?!"), and he is still marrying me and bought me this. : )