Idgit Moment

Maybe it's because I've had a lot on mind lately. Maybe it's because my mind has walked out on me or my mind is on strike, arguing for more pay for the over time. Or maybe, just maybe it's because I'm thinking five steps ahead of where I need to be, but Wednesday I totally lost my mind and had a complete Idgit Moment.

Idgit (according to Urban Dictionary): An idiot.

An Idgit Moment (according to Julie): An event in which one does something without thinking causing a complicated, frustrating reaction that can only be resolved through a long and mentally painful process. Usually these problems could have easily been avoided had one's brain been properly present.

My Idgit Moment? Well, it took a couple a tries to build up to the big doozie. Here's a small scale moment: Tuesday afternoon I go out to purchase a pair of nude heels I needed for a particular event. Knowing this would be bigger than my usual $1.79 splurge on Chik-fil-a tea, I decided to use gift cards I had from Dillards. I go to Dillards, find perfect nude heels AND bonus, another pair of shoes I absolutely loved. I pay for said shoes and exit the store only to realize I did not use my gift card. Idgit. I could have saved a few bucks!

Here's the whopper. I finish teaching ballet on Wednesday, eating my lunch, checking emails on my computer when I notice that my computer battery is low. After checking my bag, I find that my charger is in my car. Okie-dokie, so I trot off to my car, carting all my junk with me and as I reach into my purse to grab my keys, I feel nothing. This is never a good sign.

I tear through my black-hole of a purse to come up empty so I turn my attention to my wheeled cart I towed with me. Nothing. Suddenly I'm panicked. Everything is on that key ring. My house keys, work keys, even my TWO car keys. Yes, I have two car keys.

*The Story of My Two Car Keys (I know you're riveted): My car key has a clicker attached to actual key. Last summer my clicker stopped working so I took my spare and attached it to my key ring. Now I had good clicker and bad clicker. Then I accidentally broke off the key from my good clicker. So I kept good clicker on the ring and used the bad clicker with the key. Well, both clickers went out and the bad clicker started cracking. To keep from the key breaking off the bad clicker like it did with my good clicker, I duct taped it together. Now I've got this:

Can we say jankity?

(Jankity: messed up, cheap, broken, crappy. Ok, I might have had fun with Urban Dictionary.)

BACK TO THE ORIGINAL STORY. Can't find my keys. I'm almost to the point of freak out, frantically searching around my car to see if they fell out. Then it hits me. Holy Hannah, my keys are locked in my car!

Sure enough, I plaster my face to the window of my care and behold, a lovely set of keys awaits my return.

There they sit, as if to say, "Please take me. I'm literally sitting on a silver platter!" Geez. Happily, what once was lost now is found. This, of course, creates mixed emotions; complete relief in finding my keys and complete annoyance in figuring out how to get said keys out of my locked car. Breaking in crossed my mind, but the after effects would be way too costly. So I did the next best thing: called for help.

Fortunately, Mom came to the rescue. Miraculously, I remembered where I stashed the extra broken key...

And Mom was able to bring it to me after my second class.

This says it all. 

On a good note, I did find my keys, my car didn't get stolen or broken in to, and it required only minimal amounts of bad words. I triumphantly unlocked my car, fell into my seat, and heaved a big sigh of relief. Then I realized I had sun visor facing foil side in. Idgit. 

What Will She Say Next?

My grandmother is a hoot. She's in the winter of her life and yet, she's just as spunky as they come. Since moving her down to Dallas last summer, we've been able to visit with her more than we ever have. Even though she had a little health bump in the road and wound up in the hospital around Thanksgiving, she's finally back in her little apartment and feeling fit as a fiddle.

The funny thing about Grandma is that she has slowly been losing her filter. By "filter" I mean that inner block that stops you from saying things out loud that may be inappropriate. This filter usually keeps a person from making comments out loud that really should be kept to himself. Well, there are a select few who flat out ignore that filter, but that's another story.

Grandma just happens to say whatever is on her mind. She is seventy-seven years old and after that long, maybe she's just tired of blocking what she thinks. Grandma is a typical south Louisiana Southern Belle where manners are of the utmost importance. Either way, it always makes for a very interesting time with her because you honestly never know what she's going to say and more importantly, where she will say it.

Well. Grandma watches a lot of news and keeps up with her current events like no other. She's a human CNN scrolling newsreel. She loves to tell people about what she's read and get a good discussion going, but she has a habit of picking up controversial topics of discussions in public places.

Case in point, the other day while at lunch with my mother and grandmother, we were visiting with one of the restaurant's managers. This particular manager knows my mother and I as we frequent the restaurant for ladies lunches. He is in school to be a baker and upon hearing about my upcoming nuptials, he has given us business cards, pictures, and samples of his cakes, I'm assuming, in hopes that we'll hire him for a job. I have no idea what kind of cake I want; I don't even have a venue yet! Nevertheless, he's a very nice man and always stops to visit with us.

As we're chatting with nice manager man over his latest cake samples, Grandma chimes in. Oh lordy. "I know something you should make." Here it comes. "It's all the rage in London." Sweet Martha. "Breast milk ice cream." Neither Mom nor I had gotten that far in the newspaper. We're officially in the rabbit hole and going down fast.


There it is. The inappropriate topic for the day. There's no stopping it. I'm sitting there with my mouth on the floor and Mom is trying to hard to leave the table to hide in the bathroom. Chicken. Miraculously, the nice manager man had read the article and was completely comfortable with chatting with Grandma about it. He certainly had his opinion about breast milk, breast feeding and boob jobs. He chattered on in his thick Spanish accent much to Grandma's delight and there I still sat with my mouth hanging open.

Meanwhile Mom was stopped on the way to her hiding place by a table of women who also had serious opinions of breast milk ice cream. Then some waitresses stopped by to chime in with their two cents on the whole discussion. I was trapped in the Twilight Zone, everyone joining in this wildly weird conversation--but that's Grandma. She can bring a whole room full of people together even in the most peculiar ways.

As our elders grow older, they worry about becoming invisible. I know that's the last thing Grandma wants, which may be why she reaches out to people, inviting them into her interesting trains of thought. This is the strength that keeps her going. I love my Grandmother, I respect her a great deal, and I'm so happy to have this time with her. She adds a great deal of entertainment to our ladies lunches these days. Awkward though it may sometimes be, Grandma may not be the belle of the ball she once was, but she's definitely not invisible.

Finals Week!

I have made it to my last Finals Week ever! Let the celebratory dance begin!!!

Yahoo! Lots of exciting things are coming up! There is graduation this Friday, only four days away. I've got a bit of time with family next week for last minute Christmas shopping and of course some quality family time. Then there's Christmas with Pyro Man and after that, our exciting trip to England to visit his family! I've been waiting for all this excitement for what seems like years and now here it is upon us!

Well, I had my little trip to Branson last week--I can now say I've been to Missouri. Five hours. That drive was five hours long. That may not seem like a long time, but after hour three, your butt starts to fall asleep. That is not a pleasant sensation. Listen, I'm all for a good road trip. It gives me a chance to perform a whole concert of all of my favorite songs. But seriously, I ran out of Christmas songs at one point.

My little adventure started Thursday afternoon. I loaded up my car, fiddled with the Tom Tom, filled the tank, and took off. The Tom Tom and I have made peace with one another. Recently I had a very heated debate with Pyro Man and my mother about why I did not want a Tom Tom any time soon.

"I would need it if I'm traveling, which I'm not now. I would need it if I were in a new city and I'm moving back home. Bottom line, I don't need it now!"

And when this audition came up, I proceeded to eat my words. In any case, Pyro Man kindly sent his Tom Tom to me and after some tinkering, I figured out how to use it. It really is pretty handy. Kinda cool. Kinda.

So here, I go, driving down the highway, singing my Christmas songs and all. It being winter and all, the sun set fairly early in my trip. I crossed into Missouri in pitch black, guided by the light of my Tom Tom and every Branson show billboard known to man. The trip so far had been a breeze. I wasn't lost, I only had to make one stop, and there weren't many crazies on the road. Perfect! Or so I thought...

You  may not know this but Missouri has mountains. Mountains I tell you! I'm a Texas girl and upon consideration, I realized most of my driving experience has taken place here in OKC where the land is flat, flat, flat. NO MOUNTAINS. Here I am, driving down the highway, humming a tune when my car takes a nosedive down the road. I feel like I'm on a freaking roller coaster from hell. Up and down, winding right and left all the while with cars speeding past me. Can you believe people drive 65 and 70 MPH on these roads?!

So yes, if you drove through Springfield on your way to Branson last Thursday night and wondered who the heck that young grandma driver was on the road, it was me. I survived though. I managed to meander my way to my friend's house with a death grip on the steering wheel. Then, this is the best part, my friend told me that her landlady was hosting a surprise party for her husband and so there might be people in the house when I get there. No worries, they know I'm coming. Cool.

It's dark, I've been driving for about four hours at night. Needless to say, I can't see very well. I manage to get into the house, shut the garage door and am blinded by the house lights. Trying to assess my surroundings, two faces come into focus.

"OH! Hi. Ha. Um. Hi, I'm Julie. I'm uh, I'm supposed to be here, I swear. Melissa sent me. She lives here. Uh, I swear I'm not a burglar. Um, yes. OK."

Any type of calm demeanour I have ever had went out the window. I was just spitting out words, asking if I'm in the right place, not even giving a chance for these people to answer. These people must have thought I was a flaming idiot. I was so thrown for a loop, having forgotten people would be there--by the way there were another four people I didn't even see in the room. Good gravy.

We got it all worked out and chit chatted until the party showed. It was nice to visit with so many working performers in Branson. I met a group of sisters who have the most beautiful voices! Saw a friend I met working the Mary Kay show last year and of course, I got to visit with my sweet friend from OCU. There's something wonderful about performers. There is never a dull moment, always an interesting story to be told, and of course, entertainment. We listened to a young lady sing us a few of her own songs and my friends boyfriend, an OCU alum, sat down to his piano and played us a pretty tune. How incredible to be surrounded by so much talented!

Anyway, the audition! The whole purpose behind my trip! Of course, that's what I'm supposed to tell you! The audition went really well and I'm hoping to hear back from them in the next few days. It was a great experience in a very different audition setting. I performed two short thirty second pieces and had a nice interview with personnel. Not the the normal process where I'm standing in a room full of people as they make cuts right and left. Still in all, I'm glad I went. It's a great show, very well known, and would be a solid position to have for nine months.

Whatever happens I know happens for a reason. It also gave me some things to think about like jobs I'm really wanting to audition for, things I want to happen for the next year, and possible travel plans. Suddenly I'm feeling less scared about the unknown and more determined to get certain ones. A year will go by all too quickly. Branson is some place I'd like to go back to though. The people are lovely, there are so many shows, a great cost of living, and the opportunity to save! Like I said, whatever happens, happens for a reason.

I've got a lot of work ahead of me in this next coming year. I'm excited to get it started and looking forward to the challenges ahead of me. Remind me I said that when in two months time I'm having a heart attack trying to solve all of life's problems. Happy Monday!!

A Ghostly Encounter

I was listening to the radio yesterday morning as usual---it's part of my morning routine. After eight alarms go off, the radio comes on and when it clicks off, that's my cue to leave the house. Nice little system for myself. Anyway, while listening to the DJ's chatter along, they hit on the subject of ghost stories.

First of all, I love me a good spooker story, but I refuse to see scary movies unless someone is with me ALL NIGHT LONG. I fully admit without a hint of shame that I am a bona fide wuss. Look up "wuss" in the dictionary and there will be a picture of me, cowering under a blanket. After seeing The Grudge in theaters, I stayed at my friends house, we were so freaked out. I was also 17.  It's all gravy though, I've accepted my true colors and every once in a blue moon I get the courage to watch a scary flick. Through my hands, of course.

Scary movies aside, I love a good ghost story. Some day I really want to go on a haunted tour, I think it would be wildly creepy and amazingly fun. The hair on the back of your neck standing up, the chilling sensation you're not the only person in the room...oooh!! I love it!

I had an "experience" once, not counting when I thought my apartment was haunted. Turns out old wiring affects touch lamps. Busted my bubble. Anyway, when my sister got married, she had her reception at the Old Red Courthouse in downtown Dallas. My family and I stayed at an older renovated hotel just across the way. It was easier to walk back to our hotel after the wild rumpus rather than drive back home.

After the reception, I sat in the lobby and chatted with my aunt and uncle and another groomsmen. We weren't the only ones up so late. Also in the lobby was a group of ghost hunters. I kid you not. A for real group of men on a ghost hunt in where else, but our hotel! Apparently, this told by the concierge, our lovely stay for the night was definitely haunted by a ghost. She told us all about how this ghost liked to lock guests out of their room until they were asked politely to be let in and how the ghost liked to move things around in the basement, sometimes opening and closing doors that workers are using. There were a few other things she told us about, but I can't remember now. In any case, the ghost hunters were there to find it.

All this was fascinating to our grouping so we chatted it up with these hunters, asking them questions and hearing their stories before calling it a night. Flash forward to the next morning. I'm sitting at the breakfast table with my family, enjoying a nice cup of coffee and trying to force my eyelids open. At some point, Mom leaned over to me and said, "Oh I forgot my Lactaid! Will you run upstairs and grab it?"

No problem, I think. I take the elevator a couple flights up, trudge down my room, insert the key in the door and nothing. Hmmm, I'll a little sleepy so maybe I put it in wrong. Take it out, reinsert it again and still nothing. I do this about five times before last night's conversation pops up in my head. Checking the hallway to make sure I'm alone, I think, what the heck. I've got nothing to lose, so might as well try it. I start talking out loud.

"Excuse me. May I please be let into my room? My mother needs her medicine and she asked me to get it for her."

At that moment, the door opened.

If you don't think I didn't take off running, you are seriously mistaken. Off like a shot I went dashing down the hall and headed for the stairs. Ain't no way I was getting on an elevator when this place was haunted!!! I flew down the stairs, threw open the door and about crashed into my dad. Catching my breath and frantically handing him the key, I went back to breakfast a little more aware of my surroundings and a lot more awake.

Who knows if the wiring wasn't faulty in the card holder. Who knows if I'm just special and can't open a door, but I still believe that door opened because I asked for it to be opened. So tell me, dear readers, have you ever had a ghostly encounter?

My Pink House

Glitter, glitter everywhere.

No, really. It's everywhere right now. The floor of my house is covered in pink glitter after an accidental glitter fest yesterday afternoon. See, we, my parents and I, were working on props yesterday in my little apartment. Props seem to be the theme for this thesis show. There is about 27 props in this thirty minute production.

I'll give you a moment to pick your jaw up off the floor.

It just grew into this monster and I'm not really sure how or why it did, but needless to say, in keeping with the theme of the show, my imagination ran away with me. There's a fine line between dreams and reality, too. It was SO easy for me to dream up these props and such a hard reality for me to actually make some of the props. Hence, why my parents are helping me because I'm not Wonder Woman and I as much as I hate to say it, I can't do it all.

In any case, for a particular piece, I decided I wanted the danced to have a comic book feel to it. Yes, I want to Velveeta cheesy feel of a Batman/Robin type performance on stage (A few more tweeks and we're almost there!). To increase in the cheesy comic book goodness, we added signs for the fight scenes like what you would see in the old hero shows. Signs that flash up on the screen reading "Wham" and "Ka-Powie" or "Zap" and "Bam". There's only three for one number, thank goodness.

At first, we were just going to add poster lights around these moster signs--they're huge, by the way. But the lights wouldn't have shown up under stage lights--too tiny and just didn't have the same intensity. Obviously or else the sign would burn up. SO, we decided that GLITTER would work to pick up the light.

Four things I've learned about glitter during this project.

1) It will never again enter my house and YES, I can say "never" because I darn well mean it. If ever have little girls, they will just be deprived of glitter for crafty projects.

2) It is the devil incarnate. Glitter spreads everywhere, you can't see it, and no matter how hard you sweep/vaccum/swiffer/dust, it won't come off the floor. I do believe that it reproduces, too, and at an alarming rate. You think you only brought in six bottles of glitter but when you're finished, there's about three times as much around your project.

3) That's the other thing, how does more of it end up off your project rather than on it?!? It's magnatized to the floor or something--glitter just innately goes AWAY from the glue and on to your hands, your face, your clothes, THE FLOOR. Very irritating.

4) While working with said glitter, a person has plenty of time to create new and interesting phrases to describe glitter, none of which would be appropriate to write on here. If you're looking for new phrases though, just pull out a bottle of sparkly stuff and see what your brain comes up with--amazing, really.

I swear to goodness, I sneezed last night and glitter shot out my nose. Not only is that description really gross, but no human should have sparkly snot. Found out Dad was not too pretty good with the arts and crafts thing. Apparently, he's not a fan of glitter either. I really hope when Mom reads this she doesn't cry--she felt pretty bad about the glitter. It got a bit out of hand...that's OK though. The next tenant in my apartment will fall all the more in love with it because of the glamourous floor.

After all the work yesterday, we ended up with good results. I have pretty, sparkly signs that will glimmer beautifully under the lights and now, so does my house.

Just Call Me "The Fonz"

For the next week (or two), just call me the Fonz.

Really. I did a horribly stupid thing while making dinner last night and as a result, I am now a thumb popping, bandaged idiot.

After finally answering the age old question, "what's for dinner," (Sweet and Sour Chicken, if you were wondering) I began making the necessary preparations for my delicious meal. So there I go, happily pulling out all my veggies, defrosting my chicken breasts, and pulling out all my ingredients. I grab my cutting board, my nice sharp cutting knife and my round, yellow onion (I think they have more flavor than white ones.). I slice off one circle because hey, I'm only making enough for two servings. I chop, chop, chop, mindlessly working with happy little worker's hands and then it happens.

Must have thought my meal would have tasted better with a little sprinkle of Julie a la thumbkin 'cause I chopped a little too close to my left thumb. *Insert hee-bee-jeeby shiver here* It's like watching your life in slow motion. You see the knife go down, you recognize that it should NOT be in your thumb, and bam. It hits you. You've just tried to sever your finger.

Brilliant. I live alone. I can't go running into the next room crying, "Help! Help! I've been sliced and diced!" No, ma'am. So when I see the nice, new crescent shape slash in my finger, I'm not going to lie to you, readers, my back teeth went soft.

"AAAAIIIIYYEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

I'm sure my neighbors LOVED hearing me squeal like a stuck pig. Gah. The blood. Ick.

You know, they always say you really don't recognize the pain until you recognize that something is wrong. Thus I REFUSED to gaze upon the damage for too long. Only long enough to see that I did not actually cut through my entire thumb. Thrusting the now tender appendage under cold water, I took deep breaths trying desperately to remember what the next steps I had to take.

1) Stop cutting finger. Check.

2) Scream in pain. Check.

3) Cry. Well, half-way there.

4) Clean and bandage wound.

A-HA!Something I had yet to do. OK, I say to myself, you can do this. Just find the band-aids and neosporin and you're good to go.

And indeed, I did get my thumb all bandaged up and after a quick call to Mom JUST to make sure I did not need stitches, I was fine. And thank you to Pyro Man for being so concerned as to suggest I super glue my thumb together. Still not too sure about that one...

To prove to myself that the knife is not as deadly as the person weilding it, I continued on with dinner and it was mighty good. Not even salty from the blood spillage. I kid! There was no blood spillage!

It's just a little tender and I'm quickly adapting to not using my left thumb. Instead I'm constantly in a state of "thumb's up." I look like The Fonz. Seriously.

EH! Good dinner!



EH! Good book!

See what I mean? It's a bit ridiculous.

One last tip though, the next morning when you remove the bandage, don't inspect it for too long or else you'll find yourself sitting on the side of the tub with your head between your legs trying not to a) throw up or b) pass out. Heaven help me if I ever have daring children.

Hey, it's already hump day! EH!

Happy Wednesday everybody!

I Love To Laugh!

I love to laugh. I love to giggle. I love to snicker. I love it when I'm in such a fit of laughter that eventually there is no sound coming out of my mouth. I love getting what my friend Michael calls the church giggles--those are the ones where EVERYTHING becomes funny and once you stop, you start giggling all over again. And let me tell you, dear reader, I am no silent laugher.

Tonight as I sit in my apartment, a beloved movie came on the TV. I watched a few scenes, giggled to myself, burst out laughing a few times and it suddenly struck me: My sense of humor is like a child's.

I think slapstick humor is HILARIOUS! Point in case, this is a video I love to watch over and over again, it makes me laugh so hard I cry! Watch all the way through--I promise you'll love it, too!

Or this one--although, in theory you hope the girl is alright...but really, I crack up EVERY time!

I can't help it. I had a friend almost fall off a treadmill one time and I about lost it in the gym--of course I asked in between fits of laughter if they were OK (yes, they were). Still in all, I can't help but laugh at those things. Who knows why.

Ooh! Ooh! Bizkit the dog is HYSTERICAL! And something a little less slap stick is this Total Eclipse of the Heart Literal video is good for a stupid laugh.

I think almost anything Pixar is amazing! I laughed for hours watching "Jack Jack Attackk" from The Incredibles.

If you have never seen "For The Birds" please click now to enjoy a giggle fit yourself! Their little faces say it all!

Will & Grace is another favorite of mine to watch. This is Julie on too much caffeine. Oh, how about Jack's singing skills? GETS me every time! I could give you more, but heck--I'd end up giving you my entire series collection!

I love going to see animated films--Nine times out of ten, I want to have a good laugh about something. A great big boisterous laughing fit that will put a happy in my heart and a little pep to my step.

And if you ever decided you'd like to go to a movie with me, be forewarned that I laugh at all the wrong parts at all the wrong moments and these moments won't be half as funny to anyone else in the theater. There you will sit, me draped over the chair just busting a gut next to you and NO ONE else will be laughing in the theater. Remember, I'm loud. Everyone will turn to see where that poor "special" child is and they'll look at you. More than likely you'll sink into your chair, ignoring the stares OR you'll silently elbow me to take it down a notch OR you'll be laughing AT me (Believe me, I know the different when you're laughing at me laughing or cracking up with me). Dear Big Sister once threatened to leave me in a movie theater if I didn't shut-up--I was 21 years old. I think Pyro Man contemplated it while we were watching Shrek 3...

So if you need an upper, check these out. If you want to watch something childish, call me--I'll be happy to sit there and giggle with you. But don't try to tickle me. I might hurt you with my karate chop skills.

Make-up on Elm Street

Ah spring time! There are so many wonderful things to look forward to at the end of the school year including what most young ladies in high school are super excited for: Prom.

It's supposed to be a night to remember in that perfect dress and all! Oh, mine was a night to remember all right.

We had two big dances a year at our school, not including prom which is really the last guaranteed time I had to dress up and go out. To me, I was over'd the big dance thing ("Over'd"--the feeling of being finished or through). Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed getting dressed up, but there was always the reality part of these dances that a girl had to work with.

For example, finding a date. High school boys--I swear--they just don't know how to talk to girls. I had been asked approximately TWO times out of the TEN dances I attended from the time I was 13 until I graduated. One of which I had to ask my boyfriend to ask me just so I could say I'd been asked by a boy--patheic, right?

In any case, I was that girl that always asked my dates. Never have I ever had a problem asking a boy to a dance (or on a date) because to me, if I wanted to go with someone, I better jump on that before someone else did! And I sure as heck wasn't waiting around for some sissy guy to finally get up the courage to say, "Hey, you wanna go?"

There was one year I went stag in an awesome black pant suit--ooh, I felt hot. Shiny black, halter top in my black high heels--I felt like one sophisticated woman in that outfit. That was one year I said, "To hell with asking boys! I don't need 'em!" Ooh, I felt so daring. And then the I had the nicest guy walk me in and buy my ticket--my Daddy. What a sweet man. You know, they say, "The only man a girl can depend on is her daddy." (Grease anyone?)

Anyway, the date issue was a main source of stress and then of course was the dress, the dinner, the after plans, yadda yadda yadda. It was all fun and I enjoyed all my dances, but there are two particular dances that were the most special to me.

The first was my freshman winter formal, Colonel Ball, where I went my first boyfriend. If ever a girl has a Cinderella dance, this was the one. I wore this beautiful gold, champagne colored Jessica McClintock, a treasure I found at a smashing good price. My make-up was pretty, I got to ride in a limo with beautiful flowers in my hands and wonderful guy on my arm. 14 years old and so in puppy-love with my then boyfriend, I could have worn a trashbag and walked all the way there, it didn't matter; it was because of who I was with and how much fun we had together that made it so wonderful.

The second dance was my prom, a true nightmare with a happy ending. First of all, I did not care about the prom. Let's just begin that. Second, I did not have a date. Asked a guy a guy friend who not only shot me down to our 8th grade dance, but shot me down for the prom, too. Groovy. Never fear, my wonderful friend, Michael, came to my rescue--he was an old theater friend and in his first year as a dance major at SMU. When I thought to ask Michael, I knew I'd had a fabulous time!

So the day of the prom arrives--whatever, I think. Oh negativity, you came back to bite me in the butt!

The first item on my list of to-do's for the day was to get my make-up done...and so the nightmare begins.

I get to the make-up counter. I always have my make-up done, one less hassle for the day. Come to find out, my standard artist had to leave because her mother died. I kid you not, her mother died that morning and she had to leave work. OK, i totally understand that one, but I have no one as a back-up. Not a soul I trusted with a make-up wand to beautify this face for an evening of glamour. So I scope out the other ladies around, seeing which artist has great make-up of their own. I pick a nice younger lady, whom I've never had the pleasure of working with before. Can we say "big mistake?"

Things are going fairly well, but it appears she's kinda plastering on the eye make-up a little dark--I don't usually wear black. Then she remarks on how tan I look. "Oh," I exclaim, "I've been doing mystic-tan and it's worked out really well for me! I'm such a fair skinned person, I own the lightest shade in your foundation colors." She tells me I look fabulous then proceeds to prance off only to return with TONS of dark shades of powders and foundations. And for some reason she starts on my foundation AFTER my eyes. Mmk, she's got her own system, whatev. I don't have worry about doing it later so I don't bother speaking up. Second big mistake.

My lady flounces off to go ring me up for the lipstick I bought when I spot a friend from a across the store at another make-up counter. I holler at her and then I see her face. The shock, the horror, the awe in my friend's eyes which are about shoot out of her head.

"Oh...gah....Hey Julie! Your make-up is...uh....its a...dark.....See ya!" There she goes sprinting off like she's running for her life. Well, that was odd.

Not exactly the reaction one would hope to recieve upon debuting their newly painted face so I immediately reach for a mirror. Should have known there was something terribly wrong when my make-up lady kept moving mirrors out of my reach because this is what I had staring at me in the mirror:


"AHH!" Oh I screamed. In the store and loudly. I LOOKED LIKE AN OOMPA-LOOMPA! How could I not be so shocked? Can you see the caked on make-up?! I was a walking mannequin! What's worse is as I was leaving, I had to walk through the children's section and witness the little tikes hiding behind their mothers, pointing and loudly announcing the presence of a freak with an orange face. This picture, this documentation of my humiliated face is an attmept of me NOT crying (because, as my mother said, it would only make things worse.).

Really?

I race home in a panic, what the heck am I going to do? I can't take off the base because then the eyes would be look like big ol' black splotches on my face. I didn't have enough time to re-do it all, my date was going to be there in like an hour. So Mom and Sarah are on me with kleenex trying desperately trying to dust off the coating of orange powder the insane make-up artist thought would be appropriate. Idiot woman. I felt like a package of Mac & Cheese--all I needed was to add water for instant cheesy sauce.


Meet Jannquia, my alter ego. She comes out to hang every now and again--this was her big debut. She wore her good t-shirt and even did her "hura" for us.

I got dressed, tried to fix my hair into something other than a rat's nest, and my date shows up. I open the door, Michael's there with corasge in hand and I see him waving goodbye to his car. Waving goodbye to his father. Odd, right? The car is leaving with his father in it who drove him to my house and there it goes, down the street. The next words I hear out of his mouth are, "Hey, so my brother wrecked his car and is using mine so my dad had to bring me. You don't mind driving, do ya?"

Ga-gung. My heart just stopped--drive myself to the prom. OK, I consider myself an independent women. Sure, I got my own date and am about to suffer through the humiliation of going to my prom with a now only semi-orange face. Why not finish it off and drive myself to the prom as well? Swell.

I hear myself say "No problem, hang on." Calmly I walk back to my parents room and say, "Dad, I have to drive myself to the prom. Can you help me clean out my car?" My parents just stare at me with their mouths gaping open as I leave the room. I think they were more shocked at how calm I was about it all.

Here we go, headed off in my purple carriage!

I drove myself to the prom in my purple camry. Not even washed--that's the ONE thing guys have to do. That's the ONE thing they spend hours doing, taking care of the car. I should have known when I asked a dancer to go with me that the transportation would be the least of his worries. Although he did look rather dapper for the night. Thank goodness one of us looked decent.


A pink dress and orange skin--if I were a blonde I would have looked like a fried Malibu Barbie!








Thank heaven "Big Sister's are always there!" Please note my skin color compared to her WHITE sweater...


We took pictures with friends, got lost to the dance, and somehow made it there in one piece. The night started off on the completely wrong foot, but it really did turn around. Remember how I said it was one of my second best dances? Well, that's because everything after was so much better--I swear, I ended up having a better time than most of my friends.




See, here he's saying, "Yeah, we're cool--orange date and all!"



Michael and I devoured the buffet table after creating a plan of attack to hit every cuisine available. We made our way onto the dance floor where we stayed pretty much all night long and only took a breather to have our palms read while sampling the chocolate fountain. Scoped out the cute boys in the room, but I think my date had more with that than I did. Afterwards we headed to my friend's lake house for the night and had an absolute blast with a fun group of people.

Getting to the prom might have been disasterous, horrible even, but it got to the point of, "who cares?!" We hopped out on the dance floor, cut us a rug shaking our groove thang's and had a heck of time just having fun!



I'm not saying I ever want to have a repeat of the grotesque makeover experience, but I sure am glad how it turned out.

Also learned a valuable trick that, ladies, I hope you all hang on to after reading this post. Jannequia says:

"Less is more, honey child! Mhmm!"

Dream a Little Dream

Some things should never be done right before one sleeps. For example, never try to watch some creepy show before bedtime. I end up flipping on the tube late, late at night before I go to bed to have something--ANYTHING--different to listen to other than history of American dance or the sounds of "Strongest Suit" playing on repeat over and over...for the love of all things sacred, Elton John, did that song have to be so catchy?!

(My Choreography II Presentation is a suite of two dances connected with a seamless segue, one of which is "Strongest Suit" that connects to the first number's storyline.)

Anyway, my sleeping habits have been all sorts of whacked this semester, and blame the TV for the latest ones. Prior to all that though, I first was having nightmares about choreography around beginning of the year. Not just any choreography, but TAP choreography. Oh lordy, lordy, people. I've spent this entire semester trying to overcome thish hurdle in learning to love tap. It's fun, I love watching it and I am a big fan of the paradiddle step *Ask for instructions of how to execute the paradiddle step if desired* HOWEVER, it is not my strongest suit (hahaha, get it?) in dance.

I was thrown into fits of frustration last summer when I had to tackle tap pedagogy--doesn't help that I didn't really know what most of the steps were called. I have always watched, listened, and the mimicked what I saw. Sometimes it works and sometimes it does not. Somehow I made it out alive and did, in fact, learn so much in the process. There's something about having to teach people a subject that suddenly makes it click more for you,t he teacher.

I digress--the tap choreography actually comes in to play with these nightmares I've been having, heavily contributing to my loony state of being these past few months. Choreography II had us exploring tap choreography in class and out of class to the point at which I would close my eyes and dream of nothing but my feet flying around trying desperately to make sounds. Or I would dream I was choreographing for my professors and they all failed me, the choreo and tapping was so bad.

The worst by far is the continuous nightmare I've had since I was in high school: My Dance Hell Hole. In this dream I fall into a cycle where I am in rehearsals, dancing late in night (or in the wee early hours of the morning). I get so tired that I lay my head down to "sleep" where I then "dream" about being home (This is a bit complicated, but when I "sleep" in my dream, I actually wake up in real life to see my room, but I'm so completely out of it that I don't fully wake-up. It's more of a dream/wake state. Totally bizarre.). This continues on about five or six times throughout my night making my next morning not so super fun...not even a pot of coffee can help kick the drowsy state I'm in.

Once we finished the tap segment of Choreo II, the tap nightmares stopped and then I just started dreaming about dancing which usually entails me actually dancing in my sleep. Turns, battements, and all, my legs just start a going and I'm twirling around until I end up all sorts of tangled in my sleep. So ridiculous.

Well, now my dreams have passed the dance stage (for now) and have moved into a darker territory of my imagination. Due to all these crime shows, horror murder stories, I've entered these chilling dreams where I wake up to the sound of keys jingling outside my door. Then I hear the lock turn.

*Side note, I sleep with my French bedroom doors closed. Just a habit I got into in high school; having the door shut is a mental reminder my day has ended, closed. Done. M'kay...back to story, go!*

Someone comes into my apartment and I'm lying there awake, too scared to move because I'm afraid they'll find me, whoever they is. (Really, who waits around for someone to find them, anyway? I mean, I could easily hide under the bed. I'm not even brave in my dreams for heaven's sake!) It is completely terrifying to wake up alone in your apartment frantic that if you open your bedroom door that someone unwelcome will be on the other side of it. I don't even get out of bed, I just lay there and talk myself off the ceiling until I finally fall asleep again...ugh.

After a couple nights of these odd dreams, I suddenly started to wonder, "why the heck does this person have a key to get in?" It really struck me as odd because I'm the only with my set of keys. So who would I have given my keys to? They say dreams are your subconscious pulling forward to mind the things we put to the back of thoughts throughout the day.

Ok...so what am I suppressing that's causing me to dream about mysterious intruders with keys to my house? I say it's the dang emotional disturbing plot lines on television shows today...then again I've been watching Gilmore Girls so that really doesn't add up.

The lack of undisrupted slumber is doing nothing for my psyche right now...before you know it I'll be having nightmares about swimsuits chasing me around...oh brother...

In any case, I did discover the intruder to by none other than my Pyro Man--I guess it wasn't late night TV after all. Huh. Guess I'll have to work out theories behind that one then now...groovy.

So, Pyro Man if you'd like to tell me just why you think it's acceptable to come waltzing into my dreams and scaring me half to death with your cryptic grandiose entrance, I'd be happy to know, sir! I lost ten years off my life and couple hours worth of beauty rest! Just kidding--but seriously, the next time you decide to pop into my dreams, do make it a little less of a "the call is coming from inside the house" scenario.

Much love,

Your Girlfriend

No-Woman's Land

I took a trip this afternoon to a place I don't think I'll be returning to any time soon. A place full of objects and doo-dads I have no use for in the near future: Lowes.

Yes, I'm working on a little "hardware" project for my choreography II piece and I HAD to go to Lowes today. First of all, I have never taken a solo trip to this store before. More often than not I've entered this hardware haven with my father to accompany him on some sort of mission and while he was picking out the perfect tool, I was making use of the GIGANTIC aisles to practice my dance, naturally.

I'm in need of small wheels with brakes for a garment rack that's doing a bit dancing on it's own and that is unacceptable according to my panel--I guess they're afraid it might smack into one of my dancers while they're twirling around. Go figure, I would consider than impromptu comedy. Anyway, when I realized that I was going to have to make a hardware trip, I couldn't help but cringe.

Ladies, I fear I am that girl. You know the one. She has all the tools but never has had to use them because someone else is usually there to "help" (i.e. take over). Let me explain, my sister bought me a tool kit for my high school graduation. Not just any kit, a pink tool kit. Does it get some use? Why of course, but never by me. Karley's father ended up using it every time he was in town and then the roomies would borrow it for some reason or another. Dad of course has used it foccassionally when Mom coerced him into fixing something within my apartment. If the pink tool kit was not enough, my dad also bought me a hot pink drill and another cordless one with bits.

...Really?

And OK, yes, I was a management student so I had to pick up a tool now and again to help with stuff, but really, it was nothing that extensive. I have a very BASIC, and I stress BASIC, understanding of tools. In my wildest dreams it would be nice to know how to fix anything on my own, to be that woman instead of this girl, who was thinking all of this while standing in the pouring rain staring at the big blue Lowes sign, praying I don't have to go in.

I enter and it smells like metal, paint, woody stuff, not a hint of anything I would remotely shop for. Oh sweet jeebus, I'm going down. I feel like a fish out of water in this store big time and I ain't liking that one bit. Fortunately for me I have a great lost look. While I'm wandering around the front of store (because my chicken self wouldn't move further than the front door) a hardware hero comes rolling by with a dolly and says the sweetest thing,:

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

"OH GOD YES!" *chrip chirp*

"*AHEM*I mean, yes, please."

Nice Hardware Hero proceeds to listen to my crazy curious inquiry, then leads me down aisle after aisle all of home repair equipment, lumber boards and displays of every light fixture you can imagine. My mind is reeling with everything that's available including do-hickies and thinga-ma-bobs. "I'll take five of each!" Oh wait, scrach that, I have no idea what half these hinges are for anyhow.

Hardware hero finds a whole section devoted to wheels. Big black ones, short metal ones. Some with brakes, some without. Some that look a little complicated for me to put on all my lonesome. "Yeah, just drill a hole a bit smaller than the screw then thread it in and you should be good to go! Good luck on your show!" Holy Hannah...I have to do this myself, too. Reality hits.

Exit the Hardware Hero, enter the Freneticism. There I am, totally dwarfed by the huge shelving containing every wheel created including the original stone age variety. I have to drill another hole? Oh geez, I'm starting to sweat. Didn't he hear me when I said it was cheap Wal-Mart rack? Apparently not. *SIGH* There's got to be a simpler way of doing this.

Did you know wheels can cost $5 a pop? Adding up four comes to $20 making those wheels already two times the amount my garment rack is worth which only confirms my suspicions that this trip was a total and complete waste. And yet here I stand, petrified to move because well, I'm lost. Lost in Lowes and I can't even pull off a good exit here.

Good grief.

Well, I still have no solution for fixing my dancing garment rack but I will come up with one. One that's cheap and definitely not going to cause me absolute misery. I have this great ability to plan and brainstorm but when it comes to building said objects, aboslutely no clue--well, that's not true. I know who to go to so I can ask for "help" with the handiwork.

However, that might change--maybe this is a small blessing rather than yet another awkward challenge for myself. Perhaps I may learn that I'm quite a handy person and that there's hope for me yet...I just have to take that first step in order to learn how to build and create...all by lonesome.

One small brake wheel for my garment rack, one GIANT leap for my inner handy-woman!

Tigre and the Fish

There once was a cat named Tigre; a little orphaned kitty who roamed the parking lot of Cokesbury Apartments looking for a place to rest his paws. Tuckered out from his daily travels one day, he rested his fuzz butt on the roof a local's car to sunbathe.



What he did not know was that this car belonged to none other than, Karley, my roommate and lover of all cats. Clearly, he had found a new home in the loving household of the Beta Babes 521 apartment. Sweet Karley fell instantly for his furry face followed quickly by my two other precious roommates, Esther and Stacie. I, however, remained a bit skeptical of our new found feline friend.

See, Tigre was just a kitten who happened to wander onto our doorstep one day and Karley, being the cat person that she is, instantly took a shine to the creature. For me, I took some time to warm up to him. We had no idea where he spent his days and just what his kitty paws had been prancing on all the live long day. Perhaps it was because I've grown to be more of a dog person in my old age or perhaps because I was concerned about a flea infestation. Either way, I was weary of Tigre and just how house trained he was. So for a duration of time he would visit our balcony only, mewing and hoping for a bit of attention...




...of which the girls selflessly gave...



He stayed outside until the complex community rounded behind Karley to raise money for Tigre's shots. Apparently the little buddy had made the rounds to all sorts of people and everyone had a different name for him. My favorite was "What's Up."



Don't let the face fool you, he's loving every bit of this attention.

Turned out that Tigre was an exceptional cat, flea free, too, who we all loved and took care of for several months on end. He was practically perfect in every way...with the exception of one tiny unfortunate event.

April 1st, 2008, a most tragic day for our special Beta Babes apartment. It began with poor Esther, who fainted in class and broke off her front tooth. Again. Just the previous spring she'd fainted in a vet's office while visiting her childhood pet, Duke. Anyway, something went a miss and my dear sweet friend passed out in class that morning and tried to catch herself by the skin of her teeth. Literally.

After an unexpected trip the emergency room, Esther called me, told me she fainted and needed a ride. Well, Esther is known to be a bit of a jokster from time to time and I thought it was just another April Fools prank. It took a cell phone picture to set me straight (which I've been sworn to never show for fear of a brutal death at the hands of my friend.).

Oh my. She WASN'T kidding. Boy, did I feel like a rotten friend. I did find her a ride though and vowed to treat her to a whole pan of any cookie she wanted...after, you know, her tooth was reattached...

Esther returned sometime that afternoon, tooth Vaselined on, to our home in disarray. Stacie, our fourth roommate, had discovered she was being eaten by little bed bugs at night. I know, gag with me here. Poor thing had bites all over back. After complaining to our complex about the *ahem* little issue, they came "rushing" over to cart off our mattresses and reassign us to a temporary home. In other words, ordered us to pack up everything cloth in our apartment, wash it and then MOVE it all into another complex for an unspecified amount of time all before they bug bombed our home. Oh but at least they paid for the laundry.

Think about it folks. Four girls living in one apartment for a whole year and they're asking us to wash all of our clothes. Four girls. Living there for several months already...oh the massive amounts of laundry we did....Several hours worth and we ran out of the detergent they gave us...for crying out loud.

So Esther returns from the hospital with Stacie in the midst of our apartment being torn apart, just fit to be tied over the little bugs that have now thrown us out of our home. Karley and I gave in and started packing our things for our temporary stay, a process that took a lot longer than anticipated. Esther, completely out of sorts decided that the day has called for a little get away. Our old roommate, Marisa, called her up and offered to get her mind of things by taking her out, of which Esther happily accepted.

My Favorite left while the rest of the girls continued to load, wash and unload our lives over the course of the evening. Unfortunately, none of us bothered to really pay attention to Tigre, who had been rather confused with our incessant moving around. They say animals can tell when their people are leaving...I guess Tigre's senses were on high alert.

After a time I was the only one floating back and forth between the laundry room and the apartment. One particular trek up the stairs, I noticed something smelled rather off. I entered our apartment, sniffing to beat the band. Took a look around, saw nothing out of the ordinary but then again our whole apartment was in shambles. I called out, no one answered--I guess I was smelling something from outside since our door was open. But after a time my nostrils were really bothering me. I couldn't even pinpoint the smell, I'm not exactly a blood hound here, but golly moses, it was awful!

I gave in to my curiosity and followed the trail which curiously seemed to grow stronger as I got closer to Esther and Stacie's wing. Then I began to narrow down the stench to just Esther's room...I pushed open her door finding her room in just a disastrous state as the rest of the place. Clothes thrown everywhere, drapes pulled off, the bed unmade, the fish bowl tumped over...

Wait a second...

The fish bowl tumped over? Esther had this fish, Monsieur Bleu, that she got from her big in Gamma Phi Beta--and yes, it was none other than a beta fish. Get it? GPhiBeta....beta fish...ahahaha! OK Then. Moving along...

So I'm looking at this bowl and following the trail of water...followed by scattered pebbles...and trees...and bowl...but no fish. Then to my left, I see a flicker of a tail. Not just any tail...the tail of Tigre who, by the way, was perfectly posed with his paws crossed. And I swear to goodness that he looked right at me, flicked his tail once more and then licked his little kitty lips.

Holy cannoli...no. No no no no. No way.

Slowly I began put two and two together: the missing fish and the fat, happy, lip-licking kitty next to fish's empty bowl. Someone had an unapproved midnight snack it seemed.

Well, I begin to giggle. The day has just been like this. Horrible. Awful for everyone in this house and now I have to call my best friend and tell her our other best friend's cat just ate her fish.

Must have cracked because I died laughing. Couldn't contain the hysteria any longer--I just rolled on the floor with the biggest guffaws you've ever heard. Have you ever?

Then, in between hiccups of laughter, I decided THAT would be an appropriate time to call Esther and tell her the splendid news. However, instead of telling her, I left a message. I left her a message with me giggling all the way through:

"Hhhiiii, Esther...*snicker snicker* I uh...hee hee hee...I have some...pbbbtt haha...AHEM..Excuse me. I have some bad...news...ahahaha! I'm sorry, it's not funny but it is. Anyway, um...Tigre...he uh...hahaha...he ate Monsieur Bleu...I'm so sorry. I love you."

Yup, I'm almost positive I ended it with an "I love you." After I mercilessly snickered and giggled while delivering her some of the sad news of her dead fish, I was sure to remind her heartless friend still indeed loved her. Good grief.

The thing is that this whole day was topped off with this priceless scene--I felt like my life had been placed in a sitcom for the day because honestly, how often do so many mishaps happen over the course of a day?

A few hours later, Esther returns and I've already broken the news to Stacie and Karley. Tried my best to clean up the mess in her room, it was the least I could do after leaving her such a crushing message. A couple of friends felt bad about our situation and came by with pizza and ice cream except they picked up a carton of Ben and Jerry's "Phish Food." I think that kinda twisted the knife a bit...

Esther was not amused when she walked in the door. Not to mention that Tigre hung around to admire his handiwork in her doorway. He's just such a doll though. How can you resist that cute kitty face?



I rest my case. Has Esther ever forgiven our sweet Tigre? The world may never know.

And Monsieur Bleu, we think of you often. You lived a good fishy life and from what I can tell you tasted pretty delicious so kudos to Esther for feeding you well. Overall though, we survived the day and with a bit of laughter have all gotten a kick out of it since--I'm telling you, you can't make that stuff up. As for Tigre, he spent his last few days with us and is now living on a farm somewhere in Kansas.

No really. Karley found him a home and he's roaming around happily in search of more beta fish. We miss you much!



And just to prove that a picture is worth a thousand words (and laughs), here ya go:



**Note the incognito kitty hidden amongst the laundry in the bottom left corner...oh how slick he was...and no, I did not pose him--he was WAITING for the camera...

Dare I say it?

Things are beginning to slow down a bit...

I mean, I have tons left to complete over the next few weeks, but I believe things are slowing to where I can accomplish more now. Crazy. And how did I come to that conclusion exactly?

Maybe it was the fact that I was able to sit for an hour at Lake Hefner Sunday afternoon and enjoy a good hamburger while watching people jog around me. I felt like such a cruel person. Here I am, savoring every bite of this hamburger I'd been dreaming about all morning, breaking off each tid-bit of deliciousness right in front of these poor exercising people. Don't even say they didn't notice because be darned if I didn't park my happy butt down on a park bench right in front of the trail.

It just happened that way--I wanted to sit right in front of the lake and that happened to be an open seat. So poor joggers, I'm sorry I tempted you so. Watching you tirelessly jog circles around the lake, sweating profusely and huffing to beat the band, well, I figured I would be kind enough to eat that burger you selflessly gave up in the name of exercise.

Muahahahaha!

Anyway, while I was sitting, enjoying my quiet time out in the fresh air, away from all computer screens and library books, there was a cute couple who sat down and enjoyed a picnic together. I thought, "That is precious. To be able to pack a lunch and go have a nice afternoon with your honey on such a pretty day, that's just so sweet."

Let me preface that I enjoy doing many things by myself. Sometimes it’s nice to have that moment alone just to be. Of course having people to share in the joy of your activities is always nice, but there are moments where you just need a minute to yourself. I could have called a friend to join me in this impromptu lake trip. I could have, but I didn't. Why? Because I just wanted to eat outside, in peace, and make a to-do list.

As I sat there on my bench, I took a good look around. Everyone was in the same relaxed state I was--with the exception of some joggers. I really thought some of them were going to collapse at my feet and my CPR certificate is definitely expired. Keep running, sir! You go man....just don't keel over at my feet....thanks...

Sitting on a bench, you see quite a bit of things that normally I don't because I'm so focused on my work. Watching what everyone else did strangely enough, made me pretty happy, too. I got to see peole enjoy the weather with picnics, kite flying, couples strolling along hand and hand, families playing catch, walking their dogs, running their children--wait, I don't think that's an actual activity...or is it?

**Side note: I had someone call me yesterday because I was recommended as a good baby sitter. I don't baby sit. Period. I have NEVER given my name as someone to call for a baby-sitter. I dog sit. I house sit. I don't sit on children--that's a whole lotta responsibility I ain't ready for. Maybe when Sarah decides to have a kid--I mean, hey, if something happens, it's with my sister's kid and not a stranger's. Plus, I've been evilly plotting on hyping her youngster up on sugar then sending 'em right back to her! Muahahaha!

(Again, with the laugh--I'm feeling rather devious today.) See what I mean? I'm purposefully planning on sending a hyper child back to my loving older sister. CLEARLY I am not ready to take care of someone’s kid, even for a couple of hours.**

What was I talking about? Oh, yeah, pretty day, blah, blah, blah. The POINT being, I relished in the fact that I had time to just sit for an hour and take in the organic happiess. Keyword: SIT. Not stare a screen or listen to yet another lecture on music theater or strain to find one more set of eight counts worth of choreography. I sat. And I sun bathed (so to speak). And I got a natural happy feeling from just being around other happy people. And I felt like a whole new person. It's as if the stress melted away for those blissful 60 minutes and I could daydream about anything I wanted--which I did quite a bit of, all about happy things I'm looking forward to in the future. It was virtually impossible to think about work with some much sunshine goodness beaming down.

I wish I could do that every day. Well, there's a lot of things I wish, but for now I think that's the biggest one I have--a day to spend outside doing something purely enjoyable. Thankfully, I have only three more weeks of school to get through. I'll keep chugging along until I can have that one week off--ah, freedom, I await your presence so!

Hello Humidity

Ah, spring in Oklahoma! The weather is bright and beautiful, the trees are in full bloom, it's tornado season, we're getting spring rains and it's humid.

Oh wait, that last part, not my favorite part of spring. Why? Oh because I have blessed with the type of hair that tends to fuzz out at the slight chance of rain. Don't get me wrong, I have learned to love my hair, it's grown on me (ba-dum-ching!) and with some serious hair care help, I've learned to work with it pretty well.

If you've ever met my parents, you can see where it comes from. Dad used to have an afro (I love telling people that--it's true, too!) and Mom has a very wild mane of her own (curly, full, and thick red hair--Only the red gene skipped me, dang it. ). Put those two together and you get me, the human chia pet. Add water and watch it grow. Houston, Florida--we don't get along too well when it comes to hair care. WAY too much humidity in the hair, looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, yowzah!

These locks of mine have come in very handy for me though. For instance, I can predict the weather. Like today, I walk outside and wham! My hair starts fuzzing like you wouldn't believe. I can then conclude it's going to be cloudy with a chance of Big Texas Hair (i.e. rain). Oh and Big Texas Hair, it was key in a good majority of my dance performances as a child. Though I may have been born in the wrong era (always wanted to be Ginger Rogers), my hair certainly wasn't. It was MADE for Big Texas Hair. You know what I'm talking about?

The 90's hair where everyone used eight cans of hair spray on your hair to solidify the cascade of teased curls you fried your hair for. See, look at our homegirl, Reba, my hero at age six.



See what I mean? The girl had some volume. And yes, I wanted to be Reba. And Dolly Parton. "Jolene" was my favorite song ever. Continue snickering if you must--Focus on the hair. It was HUGE! And baby, did i know how to do Texas Hair.

Don't believe me about the big hair? Fine, some blackmail proof for your enjoyment:



Yup--that little bit, shaking her groove thing on the floor is me, age seven. Here's another from the good ol' days of dance:



Yeah, you can even tell I'm not too sure about this costume. Still not good enough for you? OK then. Pulling out the big guns. Please try not to fall out of your seat laughing:



The ultimate Big Texas Hair shot. I know, its outrageous how much it sticks out from under that hat--just to answer your question before you EVEN ask, the hair, the duds were all for a dance performance.

No, I don't wear my hair like this any more although I have been lucky enough to do so for friends--watch out ladies, you ask for big hair and I will not back down. I love helping people out with that because 1) it's so much fun to tease and hair spray 2) it's simply oh so tacky, but great from an audience perspective and 3) I have seriously mastered the art. Oh, there's an art to it, my friend.

Just watching my hair fuzz out today into its natural state does not bother as much as it used to. It is what it is and I kinda enjoy looking like Mufasa in the morning--I get an absolute kick out of my lion's mane, and I know the roomies did, too, when were living together. Letting my hair "do it's thang" feels almost freeing because it's so me. I joke that my hair usually emulates how my life is going. Pretty right on today since it looks like a rat's nest, just crazy.

I've wondered sometimes what if I have a little girl someday way, WAY into the future and she's blessed (or cursed) to have my same hair, what would I say to her?

To you, future little one, you'll look like a wild child ragamuffin for a time and absolutely hate when I take a brush to those tangles--that's why we'll own stock in Johnson and Johnson no-tangle spray. There will be tears on middle school mornings when your locks will rebel, refusing to stay straight like the other girls' hair. By high school you'll have mastered the unruly nature of your hair with a good straighter and products, but as time goes along, as you learn to love every bit of yourself, you'll find that your crazy curls are what you love the best, what makes you, you.

Judging a Person By Their Cart

You've heard the expression, "Don't judge a book by its cover." Well, I've come up with a new one:

"Don't judge a person by their shopping basket!"

There I am, standing in the gross Wal-Mart on Belle Isle, waiting patiently in line (Seriously, I cringe when I go in there, it's just...ick. Which is why I drive an extra 15 min down the road to go the nice one with nice people in the clean store. New paint and remodeling cannot hide the icky nature of this particular Wally World.). After hopping off the plane last night, I was in desperate need of a quick grocery run--all I needed was essentials so I caved and entered the shady store.

I've got my basket full of my $26 purchases to get me through the week. There's nothing interesting there. Really. Meat, soy milk, yogurt, cheerios, various berries, bananas, spaghetti sauce, bread. That's about it. Nothing crazy or would strike interest in anyone to take note. And for the first time I didn't have any treats in there for myself that I would think anyone would judge.

And by that, I mean, I feel a little guilty when I my basket has all sorts of fresh fruits and veggies and then something like, I don't know. Six bags of hershey kisses in there. OK, maybe not six, but it seems funny to me to have such a healthy looking batch of groceries and then something totally indulgent in there. Who really cares what's in your basket, honestly.

And forgive me for being that person, but I do scan other people's baskets and wonder what they're fixing for dinner, why do they need eight bottles of dish washing soap and where the heck did they get those cookies--they look great!

So I'm a basket snoop. Everyone does it mostly discretely. Mostly everyone except for this one man. Tall, basket snooper man was getting on my last nerve. Yesterday I had a very nosey person IN FRONT of me--not behind, that's a little easier for people to not notice. But oh-ho no, Mr. Man kept turning around looking in my basket and frowning. Then he'd look at me, I'd smile, he'd smirk, and then face front. After a few minutes, he'd turn around again, gaze into my non-thrilling basket, frown, look me in the eye to smirk as I once again, politely smiled and then turn around.

This happened about four times. I really wanted to interrupt his judgemental stares with a "Can I help you?" He left before I could harass him about it. Really,there is a point when it becomes rude, sir. I thought I had something on my face. I kept double checking my basket to see if something weird was hanging on to it or something.

Was he confused by the fact that I drink soy milk and yet buy yogurt? Was he surprised I didn't have pasta for my spaghetti sauce and meat? Did he want my strawberries to go with his blackberries--I mean, I'd paired mine with strawberries and even had blueberries, too. WHO KNOWS? Perhaps he was just content to scan over my groceries over and over again.

Well, sir--if I ever see you again, I'm going to stare your basket down, judge your normal food items and then smirk your way, too. Bizarre store. Bizarre people. Bizarre state. Lord, get me out of here.

Survival

When you're getting ready for your day, what do you absolutely have to have to make it through in one piece?

I was thinking of that I packed my life away for another day in the trenches...er, uh, in the studios. 99.9% of my time spent on campus is confined to the dance building because, duh, I'm a dance graduate major. But yesterday I had a taste of normalcy I have not known since I was a theater major. Yes, that's right--I was a theater kid for a nano second before I re-auditioned and switched to Dance Management. That's a story for another time.

Anyway, I didn't have to be at school until 12:30. I got to wear JEANS (Hey, big deal since I live in sweats. Wearing em right now. Hot stuff? More like hot mess). I got to wear this super cute turquoise sweater I just bought with all my nice matching jewelry. I did my hair, even had time to do up my makeup. The best part of it all: only had to carry one bag for the entire day. ONE BAG!

I know, the excitement just overwhelms--I can feel it through the screen! One bag is all I needed to carry my life with me. It was incredibly refreshing just not have to plan out at least two meals, pack two changes of clothes, my makeup, hair stuff, every book I bought for the semester (because yes, we do actually use them all in class), and didn't even have to pack Pomme, my laptop. Get it? "Pomme" in French is "apple" and I own a Mac...an apple! Eh, I thought it was cute.

Back to the point of this afternoon rant, what is it that people need to get through the day? You would think just the basic essentials (keys, license, money, phone) would be enough, but let me tell you, my friend. It ain't. So for fun I started a list--how I love my lists--of what I bring to school to make it through the day:

Essentials (Keys, license, money, phone)
Notebook
Purple To-Do List (Oh, I'd be lost without that and my Calendar)
Calendar
Laptop
Books for day's classes
Voice binder (depending on the day)
Ballet duds (tights, leo, warmies)
Hair Junk & Make-up bag
Extra dance clothes (because I sweat like a beast and am NOT afraid to admit that)
Phone charger (because the battery starts to run low after being here for ten hours)
Lunch & Dinner (Oh yes, I've had to pack breakfast occasionally, too)

Are you begging to see my dilemma? I look like a pack mule each and every day I enter the building. Can't really help it either because I use it all throughout the day. Best was when I had to bring props for Choreography class. In I walk with two fun-oodles (the swimming toys), a hula-hoop, stuffed animals and a couple other things. It wouldn't have surprised me if I had some change thrown at me by a passerby.

That's just how it is right now for me--or maybe it's always been like that and I'm only now recognizing the annoyances. Who knows. Who cares really. Oh boy, maybe tomorrows post will be a bit more exciting than the contents of my school bag.

Good grief.

Things That Go Beep In the Night

I'm home, right? Here on my spring break, resting, trying to get work done. Resting.

Last night, as I lay in my bed with my trusted companion snoring on the floor, I awoke to a noise. Not any noise, a repeated beeping. "Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeebeep!" Argh! So I fwop over to turn off my phone alarm (Fwop: to roll over, throwing ones body weight into a new position out of exhaustion or irritation). Only problem is that my phone is not going off because it's five am and I don't get up at five am.

Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. Why is there beeping in the house at 5 am? (See, this is how my sluggish brain works if my slumber has been disturbed. It's not quick on the uptake initially).

I sit straight up, heart violently pounding, my mind reeling with all sorts of scenarios and sticks to one in particular. Someone must be in the house and they're trying to "beep" their way out! Ridiculous but it's the best I had to come up with. Throwing the covers off, I swing my legs over the side of the bed only to find my foot suddenly connected to my fuzzy puppy's head--no worries folks, she was unharmed. SHE was still sleeping, completely ignoring the beeping noise. How is that possible? How can I, a human, hear this high pitched beeping while my dog, who usually hears highly piercing noises, is sound asleep?!?

The beeping stops all together. I sit there for a moment contemplating my choices. Perhaps I have overreacted and it was Mom or Dad's phone alarm. Yeah freaking right. Perhaps the intruder is still in here and he's contemplating taking my sleeping, precious pup away! Oh no!

So I do what any young woman would do. I ran into my parents room to wake up Dad.

Don't judge--you would have done it, too. Anyway, so I go scurrying off to my Dad's side of the bed trying to stay in control without freaking out over the fact that there is a possible intruder beeping his way in and out of our home. I poke him once without much success. Well, it would only make sense that he just didn't feel it so I shake him awake. "dad. Dad. DAD!" Good thing Dad doesn't mind having his rest interrupted.

Dad: *Dad sits his fuzzy head up--clearly where my bed head gene comes from* "Huh?"

Julie: "Dad! There's a beeping in the house."

Dad: "A wha....?"

Julie: "A BEEPING! There's a beeping in the house. Someone could be here! You have to go find it! Oh forget it, I'll go find it."

*Clearly Dad was not awake enough to process the severity of the situation as I have imagined it. Deciding to take matters into my own hands I start to storm off then turn right around and run back to Dad's side*

Julie: "PLEASE go see what the beeping is! I don't wanna!"

Just as I ran back to Dad, the beeping starts up again. This time Dad actually hears it and about that same time, Mom wakes up. She's rustling around with blankets and jabbering on about "I don't hear any beeping!" "MOM! SHHHH!!!!"

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Heroic Daddy takes off to find the bothersome beep. YAY Dad! I'll just stay behind with Mom. You know, protect the back part of the house--I'm sure my fuzzed out hair will be enough to scare off anyone. That and my morning breath.

Well, I decide I was going to put on a stiff upper lip and go follow Dad to see what the heck is going on. Here I go, putting on a brave face, going to ward off what predator lays in our house, probably trying to take off with my clean laundry. I tip toe behind Dad, into the kitchen to discover....the weather station is beeping. The weather station? It's a dang wireless weather station that tells you what's going on outside in case you live in a house without windows and doors. Why was it beeping? Who the heck knows, but I certainly thought it was an intruder. Dang.

Praise be we didn't have some crazy person eating the Girl Scout cookies in our kitchen--what would I have done? Probably thrown that dang weather station at them and taken off running and screaming like the girl I am. The mystery was solved so we trotted back to bed and as I'm telling Mom what was actually beeping, in walks the dog. Our brave, guard dog comes sleepily staggering in to find out what the commotion is all about. Yeah, Piper. I feel so safe with you.

"Come on, Piper. Time to go back to bed." And so we drifted back to sleep, the excitement over, the mysterious beeping finally turned off, and the the assurance that no intruder was going to eat our Girl Scout cookies or take our puppy. All is right in the world of the Russell Household again.