High School Never Ends

Doesn't this look familiar...Odd man out...again!

Isn't it great when you graduate high school, you feel like you're able to begin your life, clean slate, responsible and drama free. You almost feel like a valuable person again. There's a concise and purposeful plan set for your future, which was crafted and designed for you by your Creator. Butterflies flutter in your stomach every time you think about what's in store for your life. You work your way through college, live off of cheap pasta, you finally get a job as an intern or beginning professional, and it's absolutely no different than walking to Mrs. Wood's English class in high school. You still have to deal with the backstabbing barracudas and melodramatic pre-Madonnas. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the thought and memories of your depressing high school days of the initiation of the "underdogs."  Do you really have to relive the all the regrettable defeats of adolescence again? All you want to say in retort to this travesty is, "You're just the worst kind of people!" and never have to look at them again. They all suddenly seem like the bridge jumping people your parents warned you about. There is always some sort of price that has to be paid in order to be accepted and valued. The cliques are just as impossible to become apart of and the groups and clubs are just as exclussive. You know the person who invented the VIP status was probably some mean girl in school, looking for a way to exclude the "frumpy girls" from specail events. The VIP tickets would be Darwin's "fittest" in the survival of the fittest theory of evolution. The world has distorted the truth of value and purpose and where we seek out acceptance. What would you rather be defined as, some snoby girls' version of a bad joke, or a reflection of your Creator?

Toxic Lipstick

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful princess. You know the story of Snow White; she had hair black as ebony, lips as red as a rose and skin as white as snow. She ran from her evil step-mother and came upon the home of the seven dwarves. Here she was safe until her evil step-mother, disguised as a peddler, found and convinced her to take a bite of a "bad apple," literally. Presumed dead, Snow White was laid to rest in a glass coffin for all to admire her beautiful dead body. Out of the blue, some random prince from who knows where, shows up to kiss her dead frozen lips. Snow White miraculously awakens. She leaps into the prince's arms, they ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after...Or so we were told...What the Brothers Grimm failed to capture was the aftermath of the kiss. They easily exclaimed that the ending was happy; it was much simpler to state this fact than to explain the truth. Snow White led us to believe that there was no deceit beneath her shallow, musically annoying innocence. We all believed that it was normal and sweet that a woman could fall in love with a man after one or two encounters that were, let's just say, unrealistic. There can only be two reasons that Snow White was so readily willing to be with her Prince Charming. One, she's as easy as a country Megan Fox look-a-like who orders three, double Jack Daniels with Coke on the first date; or two, she's a case of what I'd like to call, Toxic Lipstick. I'd vote on the latter; although it would be entertaining to see the Jack Daniels girl. Toxic Lipstick is the name I've given a woman that's known for her short and prosperous escapades, enjoyed by only herself in the aftermath of a failed relationship. These are the type of women who wear those daring red dresses and sit alone at the bar, acting as if they don't care if you're looking or not. (We all know they do.) She's the type that laughs in the face of others' misfortunes, and says things like, "Blah, Blah, Blah!" Not that I'm calling anyone out...The sad truth is that our poor Prince Charming was led down the infamous path of the "Players." He bought into the lie that you should follow your heart, even if it leads you straight to hell. He followed his heart straight into a painful and drawn out whine fest of the "I needed's" and "Why didn't you's." We live in the time of pampered princesses and spoiled brats claiming their entitlement and ownership of reality. The never-ending need for attention and validation of their bad behavior poisons the following generations of young women. With our society's acceptance of the "Home wrecker" lifestyle, Toxic Lipstick will live on. Why did our black-haired beauty really decide to live with seven short men neck deep in diamonds? Snow White: innocent bystander to everyday evils, or pernicious and cruel example of the prowling Toxic Lipstick? You decide.

My Volkswagen Beetle

So what if the Beetle was voted the safest car in 1990 something. The price seemed so reasonable at the time. I thought, “Wow! This is almost too good to be true!” Well, it was and I’m definitely paying for it now. I don’t even want to tell you how many tires I’ve had to replace on my car. You’d think I was a NASCAR driver or working for the government. The hubcaps have popped off so many times I’ve lost count; I’m actually currently missing the front passenger side hubcap. I’ve replaced so many belts, pans, pads and hoses; I could have saved those parts and made another car. Not to mention the cup holders have never fit any American made cup, so I would resort to just placing the cup in my lap… Smart… The whole car smelled like old milk from spilling iced lattes all over myself, so I bought one of the most potent car fresheners out there. The scent was something like “Baby Powder” or “Fresh Powder.” I just about died every time I stepped into my car. I had constant headaches and came out smelling like a freakin’ nursery. You better believe I trashed that freshener right away. So now my car smells like old milk with remnants of baby powder. I think it smells worse than before. My air conditioner stopped working 3 years ago when my sister and I decided to take a road trip across the country to California. Did I happen to mention that it stopped working in the middle of the desert in June… That was pleasant! I have lost all control of my “power windows.” I have to actually tug on the top of my window when it’s open to get it to even move an inch. My tape player died about 3 years ago (who has cassette tapes anyway), the 6 disk CD player in the trunk stopped working 6 years ago and the AM/FM button popped off when the dealership tried fixing the tape player. By the way, they never fixed any of those problems, shocker. My antenna looks like mice have gnawed off the aesthetic exterior coating, so now all you see is the coil wiring…lovely. BEWARE car buyers, stay away from Volkswagens! At least the Beetle side of the lot…Every part underneath the hood is plastic, plastic, plastic. If you want a car that will be in the shop the majority of the time you own it, step right up, sign your name in that stupid computer, and let this mass European corporation decide what car is best for you. What you don’t really know, is that the car salesman has screened you for your perfect fit, excuses himself for just a moment, and suggests while you wait, to try their new “Sign and Drive” event…Just sign the key pad, and your signature tells the computer what car is best for you…Yeah right, cause my hand has made me very happy. It’s the reason I’m so successful. Every important decision I need to make, I’m sure to consult with my writing hand first. Please tell me that the salesman didn’t just step away and put your name and preferred car in the computer. I’m sure every dealership or even every car has their thing, but when it’s one thing after another, enough is enough. I would not wish this car on my worst enemy.

The Bread and Butter Plate, a Lost Art

I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself, “What the hell’s a bread and butter plate?” You’d be very normal for asking this question. The bread and butter plate, aka the b and b plate, is the forgotten and undermined dish usually used in a formal gathering located just above the forks, to place...your bread and butter on…Shocking! We’re living in an era of the “every day dishes.” Easy to use, easy to maintain, quick to grab, and, let’s just be honest, cheap. What happened to the art of entertaining? What happened to the thrill and the expectation of etiquette? I’m not saying “etiquette” as a politically correct term; I’m thinking more of an earnest consideration for one’s guests. When I was a little girl, like most, I played tea party and dress up. As the hostess, I made sure all the place settings were perfectly laid out, anxiously awaiting my guests’ arrival. When all my Barbie’s and bears were seated, I served each with respect and decorum. If only when we grew up, we could act in this way. Instead, we are taught that “time is money.” We’re encouraged to grab that Hot Pocket and sprint out the door with it halfway down our throats. I’m not saying that Hot Pockets are bad, I happen to live off of them. But I think that I would enjoy my day more if I made time in the morning for a nice cup of coffee, or even some bacon, eggs and biscuits on an actual plate; maybe even get up early enough to have breakfast with my husband. The art of sincere service is slowly dying. Instead of Shop Class, maybe boys should be taught lessons in chivalry. And for girls in Home Education, should to be encouraged to reinforce our grandmother’s tradition of sacrificial love and grateful hosting; or at least be taught what a bread and butter plate is…Now ladies, I’m not saying to lay out the red carpet and b and b plates every time your mother-in-law decides to pop by, or maybe you need too, who knows. I’m encouraging the enjoyment of serving others. My mom and older sister have helped me understand my privileges as a wife and woman. They inspire everyone around them to appreciate the time-consuming task of planning for guests. They make their homes a masterpiece to be comfortable and relaxed in. I’ll never forget the first time my husband and I stayed with my mom. We walked into the guest room and at the foot of the bed were…bread and butter plates! Not really. She had actually taken the time to neatly fold two bath towels, two hand towels, and two washcloths; on top were our own individual soaps, shampoos and lotions. We also were given a beautiful quilt to take home with us. I felt like I was staying in a five star hotel! Did I happen to mention the made-from-scratch meals every morning, noon and night? She’s an example of a rare bread of women committed to outstanding and memorable entertainment experiences. So come on girls, put those pretty aprons on, roll out those bread and butter plates, grab the lipstick if you must, and make your guests’ experiences ones worth gossiping about.

I Hate Getting Gas

For as long as I can remember I have loathed gassing up my car. When I see the gas meter near empty, I suddenly get a splitting headache; everything and everyone seem an annoyance. I become that road raged maniac on the highway. During my immature tantrums and exploitation of tailgating, questions arise as to why I didn't notice this sooner; why didn't I ask my husband to take my car for a spin, and just happen to be low on gas. Wink...He's a much more responsible individual than I am. While I'm at work, at my parents or just lounging at home, it will consume my every thought. Life is no longer enjoyable. "This sucks!" Is perpetually ringing in my ears. So why do I abhor this occupation so much? Number one, it's taking my money, and I feel I have nothing to show for it. No bag to carry my purchase in or memorabilia to look back on; just a receipt reading "I took your money!" Two, I pride myself on being an independent woman and would hate for others to think I need assistance washing my windshield. And lastly, I only have two possible exits: to the left or to the right. I'm completely boxed in by my car and the pump; unless I decide to hurdle myself over the unmovable concrete trash cans that reek of Funoins and stale soda. Not to mention that my purse is just hanging out in the passenger seat. I believe it cripples my confidence and makes me feel like one of those damsels in distress standing alone at the pump. Have you noticed that no one at the gas station makes eye contact with anyone else? Everyone has an expression of, "Do not approach me, do not talk to me, and don't even look at me." I think all the introverts got together and created a barrier of introversion around every gas station so that even the extroverts would completely shut themselves off to conversation. Of course, excluding the weird dude wearing miss-match shoes, talking to all his little friends, slowly making his way in my direction. My eyes getting larger and larger with his every step. Inside I'm screaming at the pump to go faster than the ketchup at Denny's. Yeah, that's totally me. Have you noticed that there are more and more questions at the pump now? "Debit of Credit? Zip Code or Pin Number? Do need a car wash? Do you want a receipt? Are you sure about that? Don't forget the soda! How many pets do you have? Married or Single?" Seriously! Stop with all the insane amount of questions. Just let me fill up my freakin' car in peace, while I try  avoiding the guy with imaginary buddies and uncomfortably swiping my card for everyone to see. Next time, I'll ask my husband to take my car for a spin.

Clowns Are Evil

Why are so many people afraid of clowns? Is it the abnormally large and inebriated looking red nose? Is it the fact that they look like a disturbed and beaten up porcelain doll? Or are we always on our guard, just waiting for them to spray us with that gay little flower pertruding from their chest? As adults, we've usually come to terms with our fears, and have been able to sift through the troubling memories of "Little Billy's" birthday party crasher. The fact of the matter is...clowns are horrifyingly creepy. Perhaps movies like, "Killer Clowns from Outer Space" and "It" have eternally disfigured our perseption of reality. Or maybe it's because Michael Myers from "Halloween" was wearing a clown costume the night he killed his sister. Children seem to be accepting of the idea of a giant man in a costume, until they're standing in front of the beast. Being in the presence of a 6 foot, 6 inch, loud maniac is unsettling to a 5 year old. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I never recall having met a Mrs. Ronald McDonald. There's something a little disturbing about a man all in yellow running around the playground with kids. Clowns tend to be the "bad guy" you just don't trust. Even in the Disney movie, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," I still didn't trust Clopin Trouillefou the jester. A famous sociologist, Peter Berger writes that "It seems plausible that folly and fools, like religion and magic, meet some deeply rooted needs in human society." Bull crap! How are clowns meeting some deeply rooted need in human society? Either he's a closet clown, or he's saying we're all messed up in the head and need comfort from an annoyingly colorful and disturbed weirdo. Their comic value is limited to a very small amount of time. Their hilarity is phony and over dramatized. People tend to watch them from afar with a concerned smile on their face; not saying anything for fear that their faces may be ripped off. And those are just the everyday clowns. On the other side of the spectrum, we have the Rodeo clowns. Those guys are in a whole class of their own. Who'd want to spend their whole day cooped up with an angry bull and just a couple of barrels to hide in? Not me...They're what have been called the crazies of the crazies. Beware! DO NOT ENTER the 10 foot radius of craziness, or you'll be eaten alive!