As I mentioned previously on my Facebook page (keyword: Freeway Fairington's Fan Page), an employee of mine recently inspired some old-school stories in the form of new blogs by our discussion on colleges. She is 17 and in the process of applying to and being accepted at many colleges throughout the state.
While my recent blog about the Coca-Cola and marriage proposal is one of my favorite stories from my college days, this one is a close second...
If I recall correctly, it was approximately 10:45am on a Wednesday. I was at the corner of Edgewood and Courtland Streets in downtown Atlanta, waiting for the light to change to walk to my car. I was through with classes for the day and in desperate need of a nap. A man approached me (not unusual at all in this part of town) and asked me for money. I shook my head and said, "Sorry, man. I can barely even pay for parking down here. Wish I could help you out."
"I got probation today, yo," he replied. "If I don't pay up, I goin' to jail."
I shrugged. "Dude, I'm sorry, for real. Even if I did have money, it wouldn't be anywhere near enough to cover your probation fines. Good luck!"
He took off up Edgewood toward the next block and the Sweet Auburn district. I crossed, passed behind Georgia Bookstore and got in my car.
No sooner had I cranked my car and put it in reverse than I heard "BAM! BAM! BAM!" and looked out my driver's side window to see dude pounding his fist against the glass. Um, oops...guess, I should have tried harder to conjure up that elusive money tree. Thank God for the parking attendant at that lot. In a split second, he tackled my probation frenemy and started screaming at him to leave his patrons alone. "Go on, Freeway," the attendant hollered through the window, "I got this."
See, I was obviously a lucky chick that day. The parking lot where I always parked (behind Georgia Bookstore), was actually a self-pay lot. This means, you fold up your dollars and feed them into the slot that corresponds with your parking space number. The only reason there was an attendant on duty in/near the lot was because the Martin Luther King Research Library bordered the lot and had employee parking on one row of the side corner of this lot. Having parked in the lot for nearly every day for two semesters, I had gotten to know the attendant on a first-name basis and made it a point to say hello to him every time I saw him. Fortunately, this quite possibly saved my life.
I don't know what he's up to these days. I do, however, know it's wise to keep a cigarette or a few pennies on hand while walking the streets of Atlanta. Both are known to chill out those "probationers"...I mean, it's either pay their fine or get assaulted. Or just toss them a cig and let them get a buzz off the nicotine before they're hauled off to jail.
Fulton County's a bitch to bail anyone out of, btw. But, my friends, that one's for another day.
"I got five on it...",
Freeway Fairington
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Doctor's Orders!
Originally published in the December, 2011 edition of The Canton Local. Please visit www.readthelocal.com to subscribe!
Yesterday, I heard the words that no woman wants to hear from her doctor (or any man, really), "You need to lose 20 pounds. Exercise more, push away from the table, or before you know it, you'll be 300 pounds.". Ouch, way to sugar-coat it, doc!
Now, here's the good part: I was actually here to see the doctor for the very reason that I was inexplicably gaining weight. I stopped taking an antidepressant medication in August, and had been packing on the pounds ever since.
My question to him was what do I do to lose the weight? I'm already working out with a trainer several days a week and on a low calorie diet, yet I'm still gaining weight. No, there was no suggestion for a diet pill, no recommendation for any type of alternative supplement, heck, not even a prescription for something like Phentermine. He just answered by telling me I was fat. Cue in tiny violin and a tear here. All joking aside, the fact that my own doctor confirmed my fears of being overweight has me on an emergency health-kick bender.
Yesterday, I heard the words that no woman wants to hear from her doctor (or any man, really), "You need to lose 20 pounds. Exercise more, push away from the table, or before you know it, you'll be 300 pounds.". Ouch, way to sugar-coat it, doc!
Now, here's the good part: I was actually here to see the doctor for the very reason that I was inexplicably gaining weight. I stopped taking an antidepressant medication in August, and had been packing on the pounds ever since.
My question to him was what do I do to lose the weight? I'm already working out with a trainer several days a week and on a low calorie diet, yet I'm still gaining weight. No, there was no suggestion for a diet pill, no recommendation for any type of alternative supplement, heck, not even a prescription for something like Phentermine. He just answered by telling me I was fat. Cue in tiny violin and a tear here. All joking aside, the fact that my own doctor confirmed my fears of being overweight has me on an emergency health-kick bender.
When I told my trainer the doctor’s, ahem, advice (I’m
sorry, I’m still attempting to find the positive in his comment), her comment
to me was, “We can do this!” Little did
I know that her words of “encouragement” meant starving myself to death,
drinking several gallons of water a day, and working out twice a day (at
least). Really, she wants me to spend
all extra minutes of my day doing lunges and sidekicks at work. Did I mention she makes me do exercises with
weird names, like Starfish? Um, really?
Not only will I be working out 7 days a week, I'm now on a strict vegetarian diet. (Just don't tell my boyfriend I found the brownies!). Actually, on second thought, maybe I’ll just go shopping for new clothes. That sure seems easier…
Follow my blog at www.freewayfairington.blogspot.com for updates on my weight loss crusade (or just plain old commentary on my realistic venture to do so…).
In good health,
Freeway Fairington
Not only will I be working out 7 days a week, I'm now on a strict vegetarian diet. (Just don't tell my boyfriend I found the brownies!). Actually, on second thought, maybe I’ll just go shopping for new clothes. That sure seems easier…
Follow my blog at www.freewayfairington.blogspot.com for updates on my weight loss crusade (or just plain old commentary on my realistic venture to do so…).
In good health,
Freeway Fairington
Friday, November 25, 2011
A Coke and a Marriage Proposal
Several years ago (I refuse to say how many), I was a student at Georgia State University in downtown Atlanta. During my first two semesters there, I took day classes, and one semester in particular, I had a two hour break between classes. Being that I did not live anywhere remotely close to campus (or downtown even), I often spent my break eating a quick lunch and completing my homework and/or studying.
During my tenure at Georgia State, the World of Coke and Underground Atlanta still existed in the same vicinity. In fact, there was a plaza with a water fountain and benches between the two that backed up to Johnny Rockets. This is where I often took my break.
Now, on to the story...
Here I am on what is the very last day of August sitting on a bench, minding my own business and studying for a Spanish test. Mind you, it is VERY hot in Atlanta in the month of August. (Well, in all actuality, it's always hot in Atlanta, but especially so during the Summer). An African-American man in a brightly colored sweater, think 80s style...black sweater with brightly-colored swirls, approached me. May I please stress again that HE WAS WEARING A SWEATER! In a heavy English accent, he asked me if he could buy me a Coca-Cola. I looked around the plaza. No cameras, not even a sideways glance from another student or business person sitting on an adjacent bench.
"No," I replied. "I don't like Coke."
He proceeded to walk over to the soda machines outside the doors at the entryway to The World of Coke and purchased two 20 oz. bottles of Coke anyway. Then he returned to my bench and sat down beside me. He handed me the coke, which I simply placed on the bench between the two of us. Seriously, was I in a Coke commercial? What the hell was going on?
"I am from Nigeria," he stated. I nodded my head, but did not look up from my Spanish book. You have to understand, I wasn't being uncompassionate, it's just that when you're in Atlanta, you meet a lot of odd people...and unfortunately, everyone has a story. The sad thing is, most are fake.
I continued studying my Spanish. He continued to speak. "There was a war in my native country. My mother was a lawyer, my father a doctor. Both were killed. I moved here and am staying in a boarding house...I rent a room...I go on dates, but the girls are not wife material...you seem like wife material..."
WAIT? WHAT? I'm vaguely hearing the words coming out of his mouth and through my ears, but certainly not listening. This catches my attention. (He hasn't touched his bottle of Coke, by the way). I'm marriage material? A girl sitting on a bench studying Spanish outside of The World Coke and Underground Atlanta is marriage material? How on Earth can you just tell something like that by looking at somebody? And why was he wearing that awful sweater in the heat of Summer? While all of these questions are running through my head and I'm continuing to pretend to read my Spanish book at the same time, I hear the last of his one-sided conversation.
"So, would you like to marry me so I can get my green card and stay here in the United States of America permanently? I only have one room currently since it's a boarding house, but I'm sure if I had legal citizenship I could find employment."
At this point, I didn't even care. I handed him back the bottle of Coke he had purchased for me out of the vending machine (still unopened) and packed up and left. I definitely think I got punk'd.
Still a funny story (to me, anyway),
Freeway Fairington
During my tenure at Georgia State, the World of Coke and Underground Atlanta still existed in the same vicinity. In fact, there was a plaza with a water fountain and benches between the two that backed up to Johnny Rockets. This is where I often took my break.
Now, on to the story...
Here I am on what is the very last day of August sitting on a bench, minding my own business and studying for a Spanish test. Mind you, it is VERY hot in Atlanta in the month of August. (Well, in all actuality, it's always hot in Atlanta, but especially so during the Summer). An African-American man in a brightly colored sweater, think 80s style...black sweater with brightly-colored swirls, approached me. May I please stress again that HE WAS WEARING A SWEATER! In a heavy English accent, he asked me if he could buy me a Coca-Cola. I looked around the plaza. No cameras, not even a sideways glance from another student or business person sitting on an adjacent bench.
"No," I replied. "I don't like Coke."
He proceeded to walk over to the soda machines outside the doors at the entryway to The World of Coke and purchased two 20 oz. bottles of Coke anyway. Then he returned to my bench and sat down beside me. He handed me the coke, which I simply placed on the bench between the two of us. Seriously, was I in a Coke commercial? What the hell was going on?
"I am from Nigeria," he stated. I nodded my head, but did not look up from my Spanish book. You have to understand, I wasn't being uncompassionate, it's just that when you're in Atlanta, you meet a lot of odd people...and unfortunately, everyone has a story. The sad thing is, most are fake.
I continued studying my Spanish. He continued to speak. "There was a war in my native country. My mother was a lawyer, my father a doctor. Both were killed. I moved here and am staying in a boarding house...I rent a room...I go on dates, but the girls are not wife material...you seem like wife material..."
WAIT? WHAT? I'm vaguely hearing the words coming out of his mouth and through my ears, but certainly not listening. This catches my attention. (He hasn't touched his bottle of Coke, by the way). I'm marriage material? A girl sitting on a bench studying Spanish outside of The World Coke and Underground Atlanta is marriage material? How on Earth can you just tell something like that by looking at somebody? And why was he wearing that awful sweater in the heat of Summer? While all of these questions are running through my head and I'm continuing to pretend to read my Spanish book at the same time, I hear the last of his one-sided conversation.
"So, would you like to marry me so I can get my green card and stay here in the United States of America permanently? I only have one room currently since it's a boarding house, but I'm sure if I had legal citizenship I could find employment."
At this point, I didn't even care. I handed him back the bottle of Coke he had purchased for me out of the vending machine (still unopened) and packed up and left. I definitely think I got punk'd.
Still a funny story (to me, anyway),
Freeway Fairington
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
A Note to My 17 Year Old Self
I realize that I'm not quite yet 30, yet it seems that so much has changed in the months and years since I was last considered an adolescent (aka, NOT an "official" adult). I've come to learn that I am what is considered "old-school"...meaning, the lessons my parents and teachers taught me are now basically extinct, along with the fact that my own perceptions of what was once considered proper is no more. Below is a note to my 17 year old self. I highly recommend that all current 17 year olds (hell, even those of you who are a few years older) read it and consider the importance of some, if not all, of the items I mention.
Dear 17 Year Old Freeway:
In a little more than ten years from today, you will be a full-fledged adult. This means, you won't be able to call your parents, grandparents, or really any other family members to "bail" you out of random and screwed up situations.
You will be responsible for going to work day in and day out, paying ridiculous bills that in the end truly have no merit (credit card bills, utility bills, car notes, mortgages, grocery bills, etc.), and you will constantly wish that you could revert back to being 17. Although, right now, the age of 17 totally sucks to you. You can't drink right now (well, legally), you're still in school, you work a bullshit job for minimum wage, and you have a curfew. Granted, the curfew is government-imposed, but it still sucks.
You will encounter many people over the next ten years who will lie to you, use you, take advantage of you, steal from you, talk about you behind your back, and in a few rare cases, you will make friendships and allies that will be with you til your dying day.
Some important lessons to consider from your 17th Birthday forward:
1) Only be concerned with your own happiness. If you worry too much about pleasing others, you will never find the time needed to please yourself and pursue that which makes you happy.
2) Work hard, but try your best to either work at a job that is meaningful and fulfilling to you. If you aren't able to always do this, use each job you have as a learning experience and stepping-stone. You will have many bosses in your lifetime who treat you crappy, expect too much, or are just plain mean. Learn from them how to be an excellent employee and emulate the characteristics that they do not.
3) Don't waste your time on a broken heart. What's meant to be, will be. If it's not meant, it's for a reason. This is the hardest thing to understand in life, and one of the hardest still to accept. Know deep down that you are intended to meet the "right" person at the "right" time in your life. And know, more importantly, that you are strong enough (and special enough) to be alone.
4) Always do what's right. Don't follow the crowd just because it's cool. Be your own leader. Make your own "cool".
5) Friends and boyfriends will come and go. Some will hurt you. Some will use you. Some will just fade and drift away with time. Family is forever (no matter how screwed up or crazy yours may seem)...take the time to get to know your family and its history. It may not seem important now, but someday, it will be.
6) FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS! Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure it is what you want to do. Don't go to school to be a lawyer because that's what your dad or mom always wanted to be. If you want to be a nurse, pursue that dream. If you want to be a writer, work toward that goal. You will never be happy living out a dream that someone else has created for you.
These are only a few of the lessons I wish I had instilled upon my 17 year old self. Please feel free to comment on this posting with more of your own lessons. We all should continue to learn and evolve.
(Sorry for the serious blog...must be the weather...lol).
Closing in on thirty,
Freeway Fairington
Dear 17 Year Old Freeway:
In a little more than ten years from today, you will be a full-fledged adult. This means, you won't be able to call your parents, grandparents, or really any other family members to "bail" you out of random and screwed up situations.
You will be responsible for going to work day in and day out, paying ridiculous bills that in the end truly have no merit (credit card bills, utility bills, car notes, mortgages, grocery bills, etc.), and you will constantly wish that you could revert back to being 17. Although, right now, the age of 17 totally sucks to you. You can't drink right now (well, legally), you're still in school, you work a bullshit job for minimum wage, and you have a curfew. Granted, the curfew is government-imposed, but it still sucks.
You will encounter many people over the next ten years who will lie to you, use you, take advantage of you, steal from you, talk about you behind your back, and in a few rare cases, you will make friendships and allies that will be with you til your dying day.
Some important lessons to consider from your 17th Birthday forward:
1) Only be concerned with your own happiness. If you worry too much about pleasing others, you will never find the time needed to please yourself and pursue that which makes you happy.
2) Work hard, but try your best to either work at a job that is meaningful and fulfilling to you. If you aren't able to always do this, use each job you have as a learning experience and stepping-stone. You will have many bosses in your lifetime who treat you crappy, expect too much, or are just plain mean. Learn from them how to be an excellent employee and emulate the characteristics that they do not.
3) Don't waste your time on a broken heart. What's meant to be, will be. If it's not meant, it's for a reason. This is the hardest thing to understand in life, and one of the hardest still to accept. Know deep down that you are intended to meet the "right" person at the "right" time in your life. And know, more importantly, that you are strong enough (and special enough) to be alone.
4) Always do what's right. Don't follow the crowd just because it's cool. Be your own leader. Make your own "cool".
5) Friends and boyfriends will come and go. Some will hurt you. Some will use you. Some will just fade and drift away with time. Family is forever (no matter how screwed up or crazy yours may seem)...take the time to get to know your family and its history. It may not seem important now, but someday, it will be.
6) FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS! Whatever you choose to do in life, make sure it is what you want to do. Don't go to school to be a lawyer because that's what your dad or mom always wanted to be. If you want to be a nurse, pursue that dream. If you want to be a writer, work toward that goal. You will never be happy living out a dream that someone else has created for you.
These are only a few of the lessons I wish I had instilled upon my 17 year old self. Please feel free to comment on this posting with more of your own lessons. We all should continue to learn and evolve.
(Sorry for the serious blog...must be the weather...lol).
Closing in on thirty,
Freeway Fairington
Welcome, [Male] Neighbor!
This Blog was originally published in the November, 2011 edition of The Canton Local. To view articles by other great authors and to subscribe, please visit www.readthelocal.com.
I recently purchased my first home. I stress the word “my” for good reason. I’ve worked hard for twenty-something odd years to save up for this moment, and I (had) intended to savor every minute of it. You know, traditional homeowner stuff-cleaning, decorating, meeting the neighbors…
I recently purchased my first home. I stress the word “my” for good reason. I’ve worked hard for twenty-something odd years to save up for this moment, and I (had) intended to savor every minute of it. You know, traditional homeowner stuff-cleaning, decorating, meeting the neighbors…
At this point, I should probably introduce the fact that I
have a boyfriend who lives with me. Yes,
he pays rent, but no, his name is not on the mortgage. However, try telling that to my
neighbors. My very female neighbors.
For whatever reason, my boyfriend has what I like to call a
“female magnet”. No matter where we go,
women of all age find it necessary to talk to him. I have no idea why I thought him moving into my
house would be any different.
Within a week of us first moving in, our next door neighbor
came over and introduced herself. She
made sure to mention that she lives alone.
She appears to be in her late 60s.
A few days after that, our neighbor directly across the street “just
happened to be baking cookies” and came over to say hello. She made sure to stress the fact that her
husband is almost always out of town.
Oh, and I failed to mention that another of our neighbors mows her grass
at least twice a week. In her
bikini. Seriously?!
If you’re wondering, no, I have not yet met my
neighbors. It seems that they prefer the
male renter in my household…
Until next time,
Freeway Fairington
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Yard Sailing
I recently held my first "Yard Sale" (as we call them in the South) approximately one-month ago. Being the business-savvy person that I am, I placed an ad in a local newspaper advertising the sale and made sure to price everything excessively low.
You see, I am the queen of letting things go...I throw almost everything away (cards, letters, useless items that I no longer find necessary in my daily routine, etc.) due to the fact that I absolutely hate clutter. I figure if it's something to be considered "memorable", then my mind will stash it away and remember it as such. Not to mention, I have a few hoarders in my family...but that, my friends, is a whole other blog entirely.
I am proud to say that I practically sold out of my yard sale belongings the first of the two days that I had advertised for. I know people are cheap, but I never realized just how cheap people were until the bargaining part of my yard sale began. Except, shocker, I didn't really bargain. I just paused for a minute and then told everyone, "Sure" to their offers. I mean, it's "for sale" for a reason-I have no need for the items for anymore, and furthermore, whatever didn't sell would only be donated to Goodwill anyway...for free. So, why not take what I could get? Makes sense to me.
That whole way of thinking, however, obviously does not make sense to others. Namely, two of my neighbors. For the last four weekends, I have watched them meticulously set up a "Yard Sale" in their driveways every Saturday morning. There are tables loaded with their now useless-to-them junk. And when they pull the signs down each Saturday and haul the belongings back inside their suburban garages, the tables are still full. The only thing I can think of is that secretly they really do not want to get rid of these items. Which is a shame. Yard Sailing can be so much fun. Especially the people who do it professionally.
Oh, you didn't know that there are Professional Yard Sailers? It's true. These are the people who hunt out a good bargain regardless of whether they need the items for sale or not. They come early...at least thirty minutes before your advertised "start" time. And then, they sit and wait. As soon as you pop open that garage door, they converge on your belongings and snatch up as many items as possible while offering you a flat price. If you're smart, you accept their flat price. Less time you have to spend "selling" your belongings, and less items to haul off for donation at the end of the day. Then there are the stragglers...the people who just peruse through your junk, agree that it's junk, make small conversation because they feel obligated, and leave. These are who I deem the lonely people. People who just need to get out of their houses and have a few social encounters before calling it a day. And then, there are the neighbors.
The same female neighbors who gravitated toward my boyfriend during our entrance into the neighborhood (read my column in The Canton Local at www.readthelocal.com for more background on this), came over to scope out my belongings (and garage) while pretending to be neighborly. One just wanted to see what kind of decorating themes I used and how clean my garage was. The other stated she just wanted to know if we had a "boombox" (yes, she really used that term) that she could purchase for her daughter's cheerleading squad. She too eyeballed my garage while asking this question.
All in all, my yard sale was a success. Maybe this Saturday when my neighbors again have theirs, I'll go check it out. One, I want to be nosy too. And two, I want to see what kind of junk it is that they're hoarding and can't (or don't want to) get rid of.
Super Shopper Yard Sailer,
Freeway Fairington
You see, I am the queen of letting things go...I throw almost everything away (cards, letters, useless items that I no longer find necessary in my daily routine, etc.) due to the fact that I absolutely hate clutter. I figure if it's something to be considered "memorable", then my mind will stash it away and remember it as such. Not to mention, I have a few hoarders in my family...but that, my friends, is a whole other blog entirely.
I am proud to say that I practically sold out of my yard sale belongings the first of the two days that I had advertised for. I know people are cheap, but I never realized just how cheap people were until the bargaining part of my yard sale began. Except, shocker, I didn't really bargain. I just paused for a minute and then told everyone, "Sure" to their offers. I mean, it's "for sale" for a reason-I have no need for the items for anymore, and furthermore, whatever didn't sell would only be donated to Goodwill anyway...for free. So, why not take what I could get? Makes sense to me.
That whole way of thinking, however, obviously does not make sense to others. Namely, two of my neighbors. For the last four weekends, I have watched them meticulously set up a "Yard Sale" in their driveways every Saturday morning. There are tables loaded with their now useless-to-them junk. And when they pull the signs down each Saturday and haul the belongings back inside their suburban garages, the tables are still full. The only thing I can think of is that secretly they really do not want to get rid of these items. Which is a shame. Yard Sailing can be so much fun. Especially the people who do it professionally.
Oh, you didn't know that there are Professional Yard Sailers? It's true. These are the people who hunt out a good bargain regardless of whether they need the items for sale or not. They come early...at least thirty minutes before your advertised "start" time. And then, they sit and wait. As soon as you pop open that garage door, they converge on your belongings and snatch up as many items as possible while offering you a flat price. If you're smart, you accept their flat price. Less time you have to spend "selling" your belongings, and less items to haul off for donation at the end of the day. Then there are the stragglers...the people who just peruse through your junk, agree that it's junk, make small conversation because they feel obligated, and leave. These are who I deem the lonely people. People who just need to get out of their houses and have a few social encounters before calling it a day. And then, there are the neighbors.
The same female neighbors who gravitated toward my boyfriend during our entrance into the neighborhood (read my column in The Canton Local at www.readthelocal.com for more background on this), came over to scope out my belongings (and garage) while pretending to be neighborly. One just wanted to see what kind of decorating themes I used and how clean my garage was. The other stated she just wanted to know if we had a "boombox" (yes, she really used that term) that she could purchase for her daughter's cheerleading squad. She too eyeballed my garage while asking this question.
All in all, my yard sale was a success. Maybe this Saturday when my neighbors again have theirs, I'll go check it out. One, I want to be nosy too. And two, I want to see what kind of junk it is that they're hoarding and can't (or don't want to) get rid of.
Super Shopper Yard Sailer,
Freeway Fairington
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Fat Smack + Starfish = B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L
I've recently accepted the fact that I'm at an age where high metabolism and a fit body no longer come naturally. I can't say that I'm happy with this acceptance, but hey, at least I'm being realistic. I'm not overweight by any means, but I definitely have a fat back and a little more pudge on my stomach than I'd like. Abs? What abs? Exactly.
After much deliberation (and too many clothes that just don't fit the way they should anymore), I decided to invest more money into personal training. That's right-I am actually paying someone to punish me on a regular basis. We've already established the fact that I'm slightly crazy in my last blog, so this really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. The first time around that I did this, I didn't lose much weight, but I certainly toned up and firmed up areas that have probably never been firm before in my life. I enjoyed the results, but hated the whole having to work out thing. I mean, I'm not going to lie. Paying someone who looks like a supermodel to repeatedly kick your butt a minimum of three times a week can be a little demeaning. But, at least she pretends to be nice. And, she's always encouraging. (Yes, I know, it's her job...I like to think I'm special though.)
So, back to Operation Weight Loss/Get Fit 2011. After much deliberation on my part on whether a) I could afford this, b) If it was worth it, and c) I could commit to working out without killing myself, I went ahead and purchased 30 sessions. See, I have an upcoming trip to Barbados in December that's been paid for since last May. It would really be in my best interest to be able to wear the cute bathing suits and clothing items that I already purchased over the summer for this trip then to go out and buy more clothes. And I won't even pretend that self-esteem doesn't matter, because unfortunately, it does.
Not only have I agreed to give up the following vices: eating out, drinking, and allowing laziness to get the best of me, I have also begun a nutritional ritual that is leaving me hyper and weight-loss crazed. In a good way, I must add. It started with me purchasing a diet aid called Fat Smack (which is exactly what my love handles and semi-pregnant belly need), and severely cutting back calories. 1200 calories per day is do-able, right?
Next, comes the exercise part. While my sessions with my trainer are only 30 minutes long, I feel like I've been run over by a semi-truck multiple times at the end of our workouts. I mean, seriously, something as innocent sounding as "Starfish" is an exercise that not only makes me feel like a baby without legs or arms, but it kicks some serious ab butt. And most certainly has to be entertaining for the unsuspecting bystander to watch. I almost think that these exercises are thought up by trainers who are feeling especially cruel, or maybe it's what they do when they drink (and then purge after) on the weekends. Sorry, lame joke.
Regardless, I've already lost 3 pounds. I'll thank the Fat Smack and Starfish for that. Pretty soon, I'm hoping that there won't be any awkward spaces between the letters that spell beautiful. I'll update you on my progress before I leave for Barbados...either that, or I'll post a nice, fat picture of myself smacking my fat in the Starfish positon. Yeah, I'm nice like that. Enjoy the mental picture!
Sore in muscles I never knew I had,
Freeway Fairington
PS-In all seriousness, if you're looking for a great personal trainer, call my girl Jana at Anytime Fitness in Crabapple at the corner of Rucker Rd. and Hwy. 140. She is the absolute BEST!
After much deliberation (and too many clothes that just don't fit the way they should anymore), I decided to invest more money into personal training. That's right-I am actually paying someone to punish me on a regular basis. We've already established the fact that I'm slightly crazy in my last blog, so this really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. The first time around that I did this, I didn't lose much weight, but I certainly toned up and firmed up areas that have probably never been firm before in my life. I enjoyed the results, but hated the whole having to work out thing. I mean, I'm not going to lie. Paying someone who looks like a supermodel to repeatedly kick your butt a minimum of three times a week can be a little demeaning. But, at least she pretends to be nice. And, she's always encouraging. (Yes, I know, it's her job...I like to think I'm special though.)
So, back to Operation Weight Loss/Get Fit 2011. After much deliberation on my part on whether a) I could afford this, b) If it was worth it, and c) I could commit to working out without killing myself, I went ahead and purchased 30 sessions. See, I have an upcoming trip to Barbados in December that's been paid for since last May. It would really be in my best interest to be able to wear the cute bathing suits and clothing items that I already purchased over the summer for this trip then to go out and buy more clothes. And I won't even pretend that self-esteem doesn't matter, because unfortunately, it does.
Not only have I agreed to give up the following vices: eating out, drinking, and allowing laziness to get the best of me, I have also begun a nutritional ritual that is leaving me hyper and weight-loss crazed. In a good way, I must add. It started with me purchasing a diet aid called Fat Smack (which is exactly what my love handles and semi-pregnant belly need), and severely cutting back calories. 1200 calories per day is do-able, right?
Next, comes the exercise part. While my sessions with my trainer are only 30 minutes long, I feel like I've been run over by a semi-truck multiple times at the end of our workouts. I mean, seriously, something as innocent sounding as "Starfish" is an exercise that not only makes me feel like a baby without legs or arms, but it kicks some serious ab butt. And most certainly has to be entertaining for the unsuspecting bystander to watch. I almost think that these exercises are thought up by trainers who are feeling especially cruel, or maybe it's what they do when they drink (and then purge after) on the weekends. Sorry, lame joke.
Regardless, I've already lost 3 pounds. I'll thank the Fat Smack and Starfish for that. Pretty soon, I'm hoping that there won't be any awkward spaces between the letters that spell beautiful. I'll update you on my progress before I leave for Barbados...either that, or I'll post a nice, fat picture of myself smacking my fat in the Starfish positon. Yeah, I'm nice like that. Enjoy the mental picture!
Sore in muscles I never knew I had,
Freeway Fairington
PS-In all seriousness, if you're looking for a great personal trainer, call my girl Jana at Anytime Fitness in Crabapple at the corner of Rucker Rd. and Hwy. 140. She is the absolute BEST!
Friday, September 23, 2011
Zombie vs Electric-Shock "Therapy"
Most people wouldn't admit to the fact that they take an antidepressant or any other type of medication that's prescribed to "crazy" people. For whatever reason, there's this social stigma against taking medicines that aid in the creation of normalcy (whatever that is) in a person's mind and behavior. I have taken antidepressants and anxiety medications off and on for the last six years. I am currently trying to wean myself off of Cymbalta...This is my story.
In 2005, my dad was in a horrific motorcycle accident. I don't know that the accident itself was horrific, but its aftermath was. I remember sleeping downstairs at my parent's house and hearing heavy footsteps coming up the front steps. This woke me up because no one (and I mean, no one) uses the front door at my parent's house. Everyone comes in through the garage. I awoke to the footsteps and then became alert as my mom told me that there had been an accident and she had to go. It was like talking to a zombie...every word that came out of her mouth sounded hollow and as if it was being spoken by a different person completely.
I probably wouldn't be writing this blog if my dad hadn't lived. It was a traumatic time in all of our lives, and thankfully, it ended "happily". I can now make light (well, somewhat) of the situation and what I went through. This accident marked the beginning of my prescriptions to anxiety and antidepressant medications. I needed to take them because I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At least, that's what my doctor said.
In addition to Xanax and Klonopin, I was a constantly rotating host for myriad antidepressants. Prozac, Effexor, Celexa, Lexapro...you name it, I took it. Nothing really helped long-term. Not that I can remember anyway. I just kind of drifted through life in a fog anyway. Eventually, we stopped my treatment, and the only medications I continued to take were Klonopin and Ambien. See, from my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I had now developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder and along with it, insomnia. Well, that's what my doctor told me anyway.
Fast forward several years...it's now 2010 and the day after Thanksgiving. I should be out shopping or eating leftovers. But no, instead I go "crazy" and have a self-proclaimed nervous breakdown. In the medical world such a thing doesn't exist, but in my world, it does. My mother refused to let me got to a hospital because she was afraid I'd be committed. Instead, she forced me to call the 24-hour "Nurse Line" that my insurance company provided. What a crock of bs that was. Do you want to know what the "nurse" suggested I do to calm down? "Why don't you go outside and run?" She asked. This question made me even more livid. Um, maybe because I've had four knee surgeries and I can't run? The whole conversation is funny to me now, but it sure as hell wasn't at the time.
I don't know if anyone else out there has tried to find a psychiatrist around the holidays, but it just doesn't happen. Every doctor's office I called told me they weren't accepting new patients. I'm sorry, but if you're becoming slightly more crazy with each passing day, you'd think that there would be a doctor that could see you. Nope. Doesn't happen. You see, it's quite normal to become crazy during the holidays, and it's a race to see who can obtain the doctor's new patient slots first.
I finally found a doctor who would see me, and so began a new medication adventure. I again was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This time, I took an even higher dose of Klonapin, along with a high dose of Cymbalta. And Wellbutrin. And Ambien. And Trazadone. I can tell you that I honestly didn't feel a thing. I became a zombie. And not the kind that you hear about with all this Zombie Apocalypse nonsense. No sir, I was the real deal. Assholes at work? No problem. I could deal with that. Atlanta's rush-hour traffic? Loved it. Just turn up the music and drive. Hell, I couldn't even remember the drive home. Fights with my boyfriend? What fights? I wasn't listening. I'm sure our neighbors were, but I never heard a word.
Ah, those were the days. I was super nice to everyone. Even people I despised. Yes, I was that creepy kind of nice...the kind where you just know that someone's either already lost it or is on the brink of losing it. And to be quite honest, I didn't care about anything. I possessed emotions of steel. You couldn't make me cry or feel sorry for you. I just didn't have it in me. While I kind of enjoyed being devoid of emotion, apparently everyone else around me didn't. Eventually, I convinced my doctor to cut me back to just Cymbalta, Klonapin, and Ambien. The people at the pharmacy were still super nice to me with even this small concoction. I'm sure the poor girls that worked there wondered what I had done to become a walking pill mill. I sometimes wondered it myself.
I discussed this with my doctor and was advised that I should take the Cymbalta until at least December (a year from when it was started)...I pretended to agree, but insisted we lower the dosage. That's when my Electric-Shock Therapy began.
Randomly, I would feel a buzzing, very much akin to an electrical shock (think bug zapper) in my cheeks. I would then get a dizzy feeling, but it would quickly pass and I'd feel fine again. Approximately ten minutes later, I'd be zapped again. As I continued on at the lower dosage, the electric shocks eventually went away (or became unnoticeable...I'm still not sure which). That is, until I began weaning myself entirely off of the medicine. I now receive a nice, super-charged electrical shock approximately every two to five minutes. And this shock is more in line with how I imagine being tasered feels.
Have I gotten used to it? Yes. Do I like it? Absolutely not. Is it worth taking the medicine full time again? Eh...not really. And when I come entirely off of the Cymbalta, I wonder what I'll be diagnosed with next. It's fun sometimes to get creative with the possibilities of what my Generalized Anxiety Disorder will morph into. I mean, I definitely need to thank the creators of WebMD for that. All I have to do is type in a few symptoms, then bam! A whole list of potential disorders pops up. It's great.
I can't say that being a zombie or continually receiving Electric-Shock Therapy of the face is really better either way. I could do without either. I'm seeing a Chiropractor now. Apparently, they can fix anything. Even "crazy".
Yes, I'm being tasered to the face as we speak,
Freeway Fairington
In 2005, my dad was in a horrific motorcycle accident. I don't know that the accident itself was horrific, but its aftermath was. I remember sleeping downstairs at my parent's house and hearing heavy footsteps coming up the front steps. This woke me up because no one (and I mean, no one) uses the front door at my parent's house. Everyone comes in through the garage. I awoke to the footsteps and then became alert as my mom told me that there had been an accident and she had to go. It was like talking to a zombie...every word that came out of her mouth sounded hollow and as if it was being spoken by a different person completely.
I probably wouldn't be writing this blog if my dad hadn't lived. It was a traumatic time in all of our lives, and thankfully, it ended "happily". I can now make light (well, somewhat) of the situation and what I went through. This accident marked the beginning of my prescriptions to anxiety and antidepressant medications. I needed to take them because I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At least, that's what my doctor said.
In addition to Xanax and Klonopin, I was a constantly rotating host for myriad antidepressants. Prozac, Effexor, Celexa, Lexapro...you name it, I took it. Nothing really helped long-term. Not that I can remember anyway. I just kind of drifted through life in a fog anyway. Eventually, we stopped my treatment, and the only medications I continued to take were Klonopin and Ambien. See, from my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I had now developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder and along with it, insomnia. Well, that's what my doctor told me anyway.
Fast forward several years...it's now 2010 and the day after Thanksgiving. I should be out shopping or eating leftovers. But no, instead I go "crazy" and have a self-proclaimed nervous breakdown. In the medical world such a thing doesn't exist, but in my world, it does. My mother refused to let me got to a hospital because she was afraid I'd be committed. Instead, she forced me to call the 24-hour "Nurse Line" that my insurance company provided. What a crock of bs that was. Do you want to know what the "nurse" suggested I do to calm down? "Why don't you go outside and run?" She asked. This question made me even more livid. Um, maybe because I've had four knee surgeries and I can't run? The whole conversation is funny to me now, but it sure as hell wasn't at the time.
I don't know if anyone else out there has tried to find a psychiatrist around the holidays, but it just doesn't happen. Every doctor's office I called told me they weren't accepting new patients. I'm sorry, but if you're becoming slightly more crazy with each passing day, you'd think that there would be a doctor that could see you. Nope. Doesn't happen. You see, it's quite normal to become crazy during the holidays, and it's a race to see who can obtain the doctor's new patient slots first.
I finally found a doctor who would see me, and so began a new medication adventure. I again was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This time, I took an even higher dose of Klonapin, along with a high dose of Cymbalta. And Wellbutrin. And Ambien. And Trazadone. I can tell you that I honestly didn't feel a thing. I became a zombie. And not the kind that you hear about with all this Zombie Apocalypse nonsense. No sir, I was the real deal. Assholes at work? No problem. I could deal with that. Atlanta's rush-hour traffic? Loved it. Just turn up the music and drive. Hell, I couldn't even remember the drive home. Fights with my boyfriend? What fights? I wasn't listening. I'm sure our neighbors were, but I never heard a word.
Ah, those were the days. I was super nice to everyone. Even people I despised. Yes, I was that creepy kind of nice...the kind where you just know that someone's either already lost it or is on the brink of losing it. And to be quite honest, I didn't care about anything. I possessed emotions of steel. You couldn't make me cry or feel sorry for you. I just didn't have it in me. While I kind of enjoyed being devoid of emotion, apparently everyone else around me didn't. Eventually, I convinced my doctor to cut me back to just Cymbalta, Klonapin, and Ambien. The people at the pharmacy were still super nice to me with even this small concoction. I'm sure the poor girls that worked there wondered what I had done to become a walking pill mill. I sometimes wondered it myself.
I discussed this with my doctor and was advised that I should take the Cymbalta until at least December (a year from when it was started)...I pretended to agree, but insisted we lower the dosage. That's when my Electric-Shock Therapy began.
Randomly, I would feel a buzzing, very much akin to an electrical shock (think bug zapper) in my cheeks. I would then get a dizzy feeling, but it would quickly pass and I'd feel fine again. Approximately ten minutes later, I'd be zapped again. As I continued on at the lower dosage, the electric shocks eventually went away (or became unnoticeable...I'm still not sure which). That is, until I began weaning myself entirely off of the medicine. I now receive a nice, super-charged electrical shock approximately every two to five minutes. And this shock is more in line with how I imagine being tasered feels.
Have I gotten used to it? Yes. Do I like it? Absolutely not. Is it worth taking the medicine full time again? Eh...not really. And when I come entirely off of the Cymbalta, I wonder what I'll be diagnosed with next. It's fun sometimes to get creative with the possibilities of what my Generalized Anxiety Disorder will morph into. I mean, I definitely need to thank the creators of WebMD for that. All I have to do is type in a few symptoms, then bam! A whole list of potential disorders pops up. It's great.
I can't say that being a zombie or continually receiving Electric-Shock Therapy of the face is really better either way. I could do without either. I'm seeing a Chiropractor now. Apparently, they can fix anything. Even "crazy".
Yes, I'm being tasered to the face as we speak,
Freeway Fairington
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Rat and the Mouse
I have worked for many difficult people in my lifetime. As I recall, one of my first jobs was at a restaurant. I attempted to quit 4 times, but each time was sat down by the manager (whom I despised at the time) for what I deemed "Freeway Interventions". During these "interventions", I would be sat down by two or more managers and pretty much begged to stay. They had never encountered a sixteen year old with a work ethic like mine, and not only did they want for me to continue working there, they always wanted for me to work harder.
I stayed at that restaurant for a total of three years before moving on. I went on to manage a shoe store, a tanning salon, and a drugstore. I even did a brief office stint in between my retail management jobs (it totally sucked). At each place, I worked for equally difficult and/or anal bosses-almost always men. While it was annoying to me, it was easy to figure them out and do what I needed to do in order to get my job done. Hey, I wasn't married to them, so what did I care that they were all a little off? Their poor wives and girlfriends...
Then I found what I thought was going to be the perfect job. I was 23, and apparently, still naive. My boss was an older female who was on the brink of retiring at any moment. She was crazy. Crazy nice when she wanted to be (think beers after work, shopping trips during lunch, etc.), and crazy mean more often than not (think office gossiper, blunt mouth with no filter...). Regardless, I got her. We definitely had a huge age gap between the two of us, but I learned a lot from her. I didn't necessarily always like or respect her, but I didn't mind her. I believe she felt the same way of me.
Times changed, like they always do, and my boss left. I came to work under a new boss. Another female. At first, I thought that this was going to be a good change; however, it turned into a never-ending nightmare. This boss was the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type. To us, she was a mouse-hell, she even looked like one. Quiet, kept to herself, always staying in her little hole until she needed to surface for a cigarette or one of her many "important" meetings.
In reality, this woman was a rat. She was not meek, nor honestly quiet. She was always looking for a way to find the wrong in every situation-even in situations where there was none. She took credit for ideas and projects that were not her own, and made sure to sell out everyone beneath her while doing the same to those at the same level as her. However, in communication with those who were her subordinates, she played the Mouse card.
I found this sad, because the woman was extremely smart and had moments where you could see that she was not really either the Mouse or the Rat. I'm sure there was some event, some Corporate twist, that made her become who she is. Regardless, I did not like the woman. And I must say, it wasn't because she was a woman (although, I'll admit men are much easier to work for), it was because I found her to be extremely fake...hence, the Mouse personality. In all honesty, she worked hard to find reasons to dislike me and force me out of my once "perfect" job. Eventually, my position was found as unnecessary, and I was let go. (SN: Best day of my working life!)
I didn't dwell much on this dual-personality woman after my departure from said job. I'd much rather work for someone who is a Rat at all times, then one who tries to switch back and forth and play the Mouse card. Maybe this is why I prefer to work for men.
I now work for two great men. And what makes it even better is that I am pretty much the only female, and I only have to see them a few times a week for a short period of time. They have wives and families (something that the Rat did not) and are not concerned with petty things, such as people's flaws and shortcomings (yes, we all have them...even you, Rat). Now, as far as personalities go, I could add in here the things I find humorous currently, but won't...
Never burn your bridges.
And to you, Rat: Karma is a motherf*cker!
Best,
Freeway Fairington
I stayed at that restaurant for a total of three years before moving on. I went on to manage a shoe store, a tanning salon, and a drugstore. I even did a brief office stint in between my retail management jobs (it totally sucked). At each place, I worked for equally difficult and/or anal bosses-almost always men. While it was annoying to me, it was easy to figure them out and do what I needed to do in order to get my job done. Hey, I wasn't married to them, so what did I care that they were all a little off? Their poor wives and girlfriends...
Then I found what I thought was going to be the perfect job. I was 23, and apparently, still naive. My boss was an older female who was on the brink of retiring at any moment. She was crazy. Crazy nice when she wanted to be (think beers after work, shopping trips during lunch, etc.), and crazy mean more often than not (think office gossiper, blunt mouth with no filter...). Regardless, I got her. We definitely had a huge age gap between the two of us, but I learned a lot from her. I didn't necessarily always like or respect her, but I didn't mind her. I believe she felt the same way of me.
Times changed, like they always do, and my boss left. I came to work under a new boss. Another female. At first, I thought that this was going to be a good change; however, it turned into a never-ending nightmare. This boss was the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type. To us, she was a mouse-hell, she even looked like one. Quiet, kept to herself, always staying in her little hole until she needed to surface for a cigarette or one of her many "important" meetings.
In reality, this woman was a rat. She was not meek, nor honestly quiet. She was always looking for a way to find the wrong in every situation-even in situations where there was none. She took credit for ideas and projects that were not her own, and made sure to sell out everyone beneath her while doing the same to those at the same level as her. However, in communication with those who were her subordinates, she played the Mouse card.
I found this sad, because the woman was extremely smart and had moments where you could see that she was not really either the Mouse or the Rat. I'm sure there was some event, some Corporate twist, that made her become who she is. Regardless, I did not like the woman. And I must say, it wasn't because she was a woman (although, I'll admit men are much easier to work for), it was because I found her to be extremely fake...hence, the Mouse personality. In all honesty, she worked hard to find reasons to dislike me and force me out of my once "perfect" job. Eventually, my position was found as unnecessary, and I was let go. (SN: Best day of my working life!)
I didn't dwell much on this dual-personality woman after my departure from said job. I'd much rather work for someone who is a Rat at all times, then one who tries to switch back and forth and play the Mouse card. Maybe this is why I prefer to work for men.
I now work for two great men. And what makes it even better is that I am pretty much the only female, and I only have to see them a few times a week for a short period of time. They have wives and families (something that the Rat did not) and are not concerned with petty things, such as people's flaws and shortcomings (yes, we all have them...even you, Rat). Now, as far as personalities go, I could add in here the things I find humorous currently, but won't...
Never burn your bridges.
And to you, Rat: Karma is a motherf*cker!
Best,
Freeway Fairington
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Day My Car Almost Murdered Me
I love my car. Well, as much I can, anyway. It gets me where I need to go. It looks nice. It's age-appropriate (maybe even a little on the Yuppie side). But, I love it. And I take good care of it. The oil gets changed when it's supposed to. I replace things that break or need fixing when necessary. Hell, it even gets washed (although not as frequently as it should-AHEM, LITTLE BROTHER). I am very good to my car.
That being said, I'll give you a little additional background on my beloved car. She is a 2006 VW Jetta 2.5. She is silver with black leather interior. I researched her before I was forced into buying her (that in itself is a whole other story...thank you drunk driver...), and found her to be an okay fit for my budget and lifestyle. We haven't really had any problems. I mean, yes, we're both females, so that can be an issue sometimes, but we usually get along just fine. Now us and the tires...not so much. But, if you know me, you know I've never been one for getting along with tires. Pretty sure I had 13 flat tires with my previous car. :(
(My mother keeps telling me I need to marry a mechanic, or at least a man who works at a tire shop).
You all know that I often visit one of my sisters in Florida. So, of course, this past Labor Day weekend, my sister Clara and I made the six hour trip (sorry about that GPS snafu, Clara!) to see our other sister, Tracy. Prior to making the trip, I made sure to have my oil changed and checked the air in my tires. Everything appeared fine, and we made it there in one piece.
Our trip home was a different story entirely. Let me make it a point here to tell you that it's a stupid, stupid idea to travel during a tropical storm. We left Florida earlier than planned on Labor Day morning, and of course, it was raining. Actually, raining is an understatement. We packed the car and began driving in a Tsunami. Since the front left tire looked low on air, we stopped when the rain turned to a light mist to check and put air in all of the tires.
Of course, air costs money, and likewise, of course, I had no change. Precious time without rain was wasting. I walked inside the gas station and stood in line behind a 70-something year old lady who was redeeming twenty lottery tickets and purchasing about thirty more. Well, she was trying to anyway...the clerk was too busy adding ketchup and mustard to his cheese dog. By the time I got back outside with my quarters, it was starting to rain heavily again. My pants and shirt were thoroughly soaked. You can imagine that the fact that I was about to embark on an at least six hour ride home in soaking wet clothes was already putting me in a bad mood. Oh, and did I mention that Clara and I always travel with our three dogs? Just imagine being soaking wet in a car that smelled like wet dogs...and knowing that you were about to travel that way for the next six hours...yep, that's right, it was a total "FML" moment.
So, air is finally in tires, tire gauge claims that it really isn't. Only 25 PSI, and I'm supposed to have 33? I'm pissed at this point and decide to drive anyway. Apparently, this did not make my car happy. Approximately an hour into the drive, my car started doing weird, crazy things. She apparently was pms-ing and intended on murdering me and my passengers. Despite the fact that I'm already driving slow on a two-lane road through Alabama in a Tsunami, my car starts flashing the warning light that comes on when some type of traction is activated. My car begins to "correct" itself, and despite the fact that I am not technically "steering", it pulls dangerously to the left and starts to slide. My heartbeat quickens. I knew I should have taken my anxiety medicine. It stops for a while, and then begins to do it again-and more frequently. Clara is asleep in the passenger seat and doesn't seem to notice the random jerking to the left and then back over into our lane. I wake her up and tell her I'm worried. It starts raining harder.
I do what I do when all else fails and pull over to call my dad. I pick my dad over my mom because I know she's going to tell me to look in the book that came with my car. And I also know that the book is in my trunk and that I'm not about to get soaking wet again. My dad drills me with a series of questions and then tells me he doesn't know, but it sounds like I'm screwed anyway. Thanks, Dad...pretty sure I already knew this before I called. He then turns into my mother and asks me what my book says. I hang up, even more pissed and get out into the pouring rain to get the damn book. The book that doesn't say anything except for what the hazard light means...again, something I already know. I am seriously beginning to hate my car and Volkswagon at this point.
Then, I suddenly remember something that the salesman who sold me my car said, "Never hit the 'ESP' button". I look down and push it. The light goes out. I restart my car, the hazard light is still off. I tell this information to my dad, who then tells me to pull back out onto the road and drive a little ways and then slam on my brakes. He is serious. I wonder for a brief moment if he and my car are in cohorts in this plot to murder me. Sure enough, my car brakes correctly and doesn't veer of its own accord into oncoming traffic.
Clara and I make it safely through the rest of Alabama, and then through several tornados that seem to be touching down everywhere along our route home in Georgia. I never named my car prior to this trip, but I think I have decided to do so after enduring such a nerve-racking drive: Crazy Bitch.
(And btw, we made that entire trip driving with an expired tag. Guess who forgot to get their tag renewed before partying it up on her birthday? Yep, that idiot would be me...)
Saved for the time being,
Freeway Fairington
That being said, I'll give you a little additional background on my beloved car. She is a 2006 VW Jetta 2.5. She is silver with black leather interior. I researched her before I was forced into buying her (that in itself is a whole other story...thank you drunk driver...), and found her to be an okay fit for my budget and lifestyle. We haven't really had any problems. I mean, yes, we're both females, so that can be an issue sometimes, but we usually get along just fine. Now us and the tires...not so much. But, if you know me, you know I've never been one for getting along with tires. Pretty sure I had 13 flat tires with my previous car. :(
(My mother keeps telling me I need to marry a mechanic, or at least a man who works at a tire shop).
You all know that I often visit one of my sisters in Florida. So, of course, this past Labor Day weekend, my sister Clara and I made the six hour trip (sorry about that GPS snafu, Clara!) to see our other sister, Tracy. Prior to making the trip, I made sure to have my oil changed and checked the air in my tires. Everything appeared fine, and we made it there in one piece.
Our trip home was a different story entirely. Let me make it a point here to tell you that it's a stupid, stupid idea to travel during a tropical storm. We left Florida earlier than planned on Labor Day morning, and of course, it was raining. Actually, raining is an understatement. We packed the car and began driving in a Tsunami. Since the front left tire looked low on air, we stopped when the rain turned to a light mist to check and put air in all of the tires.
Of course, air costs money, and likewise, of course, I had no change. Precious time without rain was wasting. I walked inside the gas station and stood in line behind a 70-something year old lady who was redeeming twenty lottery tickets and purchasing about thirty more. Well, she was trying to anyway...the clerk was too busy adding ketchup and mustard to his cheese dog. By the time I got back outside with my quarters, it was starting to rain heavily again. My pants and shirt were thoroughly soaked. You can imagine that the fact that I was about to embark on an at least six hour ride home in soaking wet clothes was already putting me in a bad mood. Oh, and did I mention that Clara and I always travel with our three dogs? Just imagine being soaking wet in a car that smelled like wet dogs...and knowing that you were about to travel that way for the next six hours...yep, that's right, it was a total "FML" moment.
So, air is finally in tires, tire gauge claims that it really isn't. Only 25 PSI, and I'm supposed to have 33? I'm pissed at this point and decide to drive anyway. Apparently, this did not make my car happy. Approximately an hour into the drive, my car started doing weird, crazy things. She apparently was pms-ing and intended on murdering me and my passengers. Despite the fact that I'm already driving slow on a two-lane road through Alabama in a Tsunami, my car starts flashing the warning light that comes on when some type of traction is activated. My car begins to "correct" itself, and despite the fact that I am not technically "steering", it pulls dangerously to the left and starts to slide. My heartbeat quickens. I knew I should have taken my anxiety medicine. It stops for a while, and then begins to do it again-and more frequently. Clara is asleep in the passenger seat and doesn't seem to notice the random jerking to the left and then back over into our lane. I wake her up and tell her I'm worried. It starts raining harder.
I do what I do when all else fails and pull over to call my dad. I pick my dad over my mom because I know she's going to tell me to look in the book that came with my car. And I also know that the book is in my trunk and that I'm not about to get soaking wet again. My dad drills me with a series of questions and then tells me he doesn't know, but it sounds like I'm screwed anyway. Thanks, Dad...pretty sure I already knew this before I called. He then turns into my mother and asks me what my book says. I hang up, even more pissed and get out into the pouring rain to get the damn book. The book that doesn't say anything except for what the hazard light means...again, something I already know. I am seriously beginning to hate my car and Volkswagon at this point.
Then, I suddenly remember something that the salesman who sold me my car said, "Never hit the 'ESP' button". I look down and push it. The light goes out. I restart my car, the hazard light is still off. I tell this information to my dad, who then tells me to pull back out onto the road and drive a little ways and then slam on my brakes. He is serious. I wonder for a brief moment if he and my car are in cohorts in this plot to murder me. Sure enough, my car brakes correctly and doesn't veer of its own accord into oncoming traffic.
Clara and I make it safely through the rest of Alabama, and then through several tornados that seem to be touching down everywhere along our route home in Georgia. I never named my car prior to this trip, but I think I have decided to do so after enduring such a nerve-racking drive: Crazy Bitch.
(And btw, we made that entire trip driving with an expired tag. Guess who forgot to get their tag renewed before partying it up on her birthday? Yep, that idiot would be me...)
Saved for the time being,
Freeway Fairington
Sunday, August 28, 2011
MILF
As I am preparing to move (hopefully) within the next couple of weeks, I've been going through some of my old belongings in an effort to decide what comes along and what gets trashed. Finding an old box of photo albums (you know, back from when we actually had them developed...), I couldn't help but laugh when I came across some from a visit with my nephew and sister many years ago.
I believe my nephew was three or four at the time, and like most children I encounter, he gravitated toward me. It's easy being an aunt and not a mother because I have always been able to spoil him rotten and not have to discipline him. At the time of this particular visit, my sister Tracy was single, and my nephew was an only child.
One particularly hot summer afternoon, my sister, our grandmother, my nephew and myself went to Target. I no longer know the reason for our visit to this popular retail chain, and even if I could recall, it's irrelevant. After paying for my purchases and waiting for my sister to do the same, I began to walk with my nephew toward the door.
Being the fun aunt that I am, I decided to teach him how to walk keeping his feet inside each of the square tiles and told him that if he stepped on a crack, he'd break his mother's back. Very carefully, the two of us walked across the spacious front-end of the store to the doors, determined not to step on any cracks. I knew he'd never forgive himself if he broke my sister's back.
As we walked hand-in-hand playing our game, I could hear my sister say behind us, "Aunt Freeway is such a MILF!".
"Me too, Mommy! Me too!" Exclaimed his little voice.
We tried to convince him that no, he was not a MILF, but he insisted he was. My sister, grandmother, and I laughed hysterically at this insistence. All I could say to him was, "Someday when you're old enough to understand what you just said, I'm going to tell you this story and embarrass you". He's nine now.
I'm trying to determine if he's old enough to hear this story...and whether or not he'll understand it. He probably has never heard of the original American Pie movie that this saying became popular from, and I think my sister might kill me if I show it to him.
Taking votes,
Freeway Fairington
PS-I hope you all know what a MILF is. If not, please look it up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MILF (Btw, this blog refers to the FIRST meaning!)
I believe my nephew was three or four at the time, and like most children I encounter, he gravitated toward me. It's easy being an aunt and not a mother because I have always been able to spoil him rotten and not have to discipline him. At the time of this particular visit, my sister Tracy was single, and my nephew was an only child.
One particularly hot summer afternoon, my sister, our grandmother, my nephew and myself went to Target. I no longer know the reason for our visit to this popular retail chain, and even if I could recall, it's irrelevant. After paying for my purchases and waiting for my sister to do the same, I began to walk with my nephew toward the door.
Being the fun aunt that I am, I decided to teach him how to walk keeping his feet inside each of the square tiles and told him that if he stepped on a crack, he'd break his mother's back. Very carefully, the two of us walked across the spacious front-end of the store to the doors, determined not to step on any cracks. I knew he'd never forgive himself if he broke my sister's back.
As we walked hand-in-hand playing our game, I could hear my sister say behind us, "Aunt Freeway is such a MILF!".
"Me too, Mommy! Me too!" Exclaimed his little voice.
We tried to convince him that no, he was not a MILF, but he insisted he was. My sister, grandmother, and I laughed hysterically at this insistence. All I could say to him was, "Someday when you're old enough to understand what you just said, I'm going to tell you this story and embarrass you". He's nine now.
I'm trying to determine if he's old enough to hear this story...and whether or not he'll understand it. He probably has never heard of the original American Pie movie that this saying became popular from, and I think my sister might kill me if I show it to him.
Taking votes,
Freeway Fairington
PS-I hope you all know what a MILF is. If not, please look it up: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MILF (Btw, this blog refers to the FIRST meaning!)
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Hobo Living is the Life for Me!
I'd never really considered the life of a Hobo until a few years ago when my sister Tracy moved to Florida. She and my brother-in-law are both active-duty military personnel, and they are currently stationed in a small town in Florida.
On one trip with my parents to visit them, we drove through a small town called Laurel Hills. Sign after sign read "Home of the Hobos", "Hobo Video", etc. I really found it odd that this town was a self-proclaimed Hobo haven, and yet there were no Historical Markers, no museums, basically nothing to identify what exactly gave this town such Hobo bragging rights.
I, of course, googled the town and tried to find a valid history, but could find nothing. So, I instead searched the definition of what the politically correct terminology of a Hobo means. According to dictionary.com, a Hobo is 1) a tramp or migrant, 2) a migratory worker. I found no supporting documentation of why Laurel Hill was considered "Home of the Hobos", but I fell in love with the saying nonetheless.
Every time my oldest sister, Clara, and I visit Tracy, we make sure to take the route that leads us through this town. The elementary school boasts of skills it instills upon its young students to further them in life, yet their school mascot is a Hobo. The irony in this is absolutely hilarious to us. So much so, we were immature enough to stop and take pictures.
As I was browsing recently at a local bookstore, I found a book on the $3 clearance rack about Hobo Living 101 and was tempted to purchase the book for Clara. After careful consideration, I decided that Clara needed to learn to be a Hobo on her own, and that this book would not help her. I did text her to let her know that I had an old pillowcase I was willing to part with, and surely we could learn to tie it to some type of sturdy stick. What we were to carry with us, however, was beyond me. And the "graffiti" signs portrayed in the book were definitely 1890s old-school (if you know what I mean)-we'd definitely need to get with some real gangsta/Hobo-ish people to learn the new, correct signs to spray paint wherever we went to let other Hobos know whether the town was safe, if there was food, etc.
We had a good laugh at this.
Our next trip is planned for an upcoming Holiday weekend. I'm hoping to locate the Town Historian, or maybe, just maybe, get lucky enough to see a Hobo parade...this Hobo living really intrigues me.
Plus, if the closing on my house becomes anymore stressful, I seriously may consider making a throwback decision to the Hobo way of life. I mean, how hard can it be to become a migrant tramp? My wardrobe is definitely wide enough, and I have plenty of pillowcases...of course, that leaves the problem of needing an Hobo Entourage.
So I beg the question, "Who's coming with me?".
Hobo-fully yours,
Freeway Fairington
On one trip with my parents to visit them, we drove through a small town called Laurel Hills. Sign after sign read "Home of the Hobos", "Hobo Video", etc. I really found it odd that this town was a self-proclaimed Hobo haven, and yet there were no Historical Markers, no museums, basically nothing to identify what exactly gave this town such Hobo bragging rights.
I, of course, googled the town and tried to find a valid history, but could find nothing. So, I instead searched the definition of what the politically correct terminology of a Hobo means. According to dictionary.com, a Hobo is 1) a tramp or migrant, 2) a migratory worker. I found no supporting documentation of why Laurel Hill was considered "Home of the Hobos", but I fell in love with the saying nonetheless.
Every time my oldest sister, Clara, and I visit Tracy, we make sure to take the route that leads us through this town. The elementary school boasts of skills it instills upon its young students to further them in life, yet their school mascot is a Hobo. The irony in this is absolutely hilarious to us. So much so, we were immature enough to stop and take pictures.
As I was browsing recently at a local bookstore, I found a book on the $3 clearance rack about Hobo Living 101 and was tempted to purchase the book for Clara. After careful consideration, I decided that Clara needed to learn to be a Hobo on her own, and that this book would not help her. I did text her to let her know that I had an old pillowcase I was willing to part with, and surely we could learn to tie it to some type of sturdy stick. What we were to carry with us, however, was beyond me. And the "graffiti" signs portrayed in the book were definitely 1890s old-school (if you know what I mean)-we'd definitely need to get with some real gangsta/Hobo-ish people to learn the new, correct signs to spray paint wherever we went to let other Hobos know whether the town was safe, if there was food, etc.
We had a good laugh at this.
Our next trip is planned for an upcoming Holiday weekend. I'm hoping to locate the Town Historian, or maybe, just maybe, get lucky enough to see a Hobo parade...this Hobo living really intrigues me.
Plus, if the closing on my house becomes anymore stressful, I seriously may consider making a throwback decision to the Hobo way of life. I mean, how hard can it be to become a migrant tramp? My wardrobe is definitely wide enough, and I have plenty of pillowcases...of course, that leaves the problem of needing an Hobo Entourage.
So I beg the question, "Who's coming with me?".
Hobo-fully yours,
Freeway Fairington
Monday, August 15, 2011
Why I Hate Peroxide
As I was brushing my teeth this morning, I noticed a brown bottle with a purple label sitting on the bathroom counter. Most of you probably wouldn't have noticed this, much less minded it; however, what the bottle contained is my arch-nemesis. Peroxide.
A few years ago on the 4th of July, I celebrated America's Independence like any other 24 year old would. I went to a couple of pool parties, zip-lined from the woods into one of those pools, drank a few beers, grilled out, and then went home, where I promptly passed out and went to sleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night super thirsty and dehydrated. I reached in the darkness for the bottle of Evian on my nightstand and chugged. As soon as the "water" hit the back of my throat, I felt like someone had poured burning acid down my throat. I threw the water down, reached for the lamp and stared in horror. I had just chugged about 1/4 of a huge bottle of Peroxide. I slapped my boyfriend at the time numerous times to get him to wake up. "I just drank Peroxide!" I screamed. He laughed. "No, seriously!"
I'm frantically searching the bottle for Poison Control's phone number, or instructions saying to drink water, milk, something...he gets online and starts reading online threads about people who drink Peroxide to clean their systems out. I am now foaming at the mouth-literally. He finally calls the Poison Control center and has a good laugh with the guy manning the phones that night. "You can't drink water," he says. "And you might be foamy for a few days...".
So, I know you're wondering why I would have a huge bottle of Peroxide hanging out on my nightstand, right? Well apparently, I had cut myself earlier in the day while zip-lining and had used the Peroxide to clean my cut. Instead of going and putting it away, I was lazy and set it on the nightstand right next to a 1-liter bottle of Evian. Both had a domed top, and approximately the same sized lid. It was easy to mistake the two while half-asleep.
Let's just say that I now get sick at the sight of a bottle of Peroxide, and just thinking about it still gives me the chills. I can't even put into words how much it burned going down my throat, or how foamy it was after the fact. I don't even buy Peroxide anymore and refuse to use it on any cuts or scrapes. My current boyfriend knows this, and I swear the bottles of Peroxide I find under the bathroom sink (or on it, in this case) seem to be multiplying like rabbits. I hope he finds this funny, because I sure as hell do not.
Until next time,
Freeway Fairington
A few years ago on the 4th of July, I celebrated America's Independence like any other 24 year old would. I went to a couple of pool parties, zip-lined from the woods into one of those pools, drank a few beers, grilled out, and then went home, where I promptly passed out and went to sleep.
I woke up in the middle of the night super thirsty and dehydrated. I reached in the darkness for the bottle of Evian on my nightstand and chugged. As soon as the "water" hit the back of my throat, I felt like someone had poured burning acid down my throat. I threw the water down, reached for the lamp and stared in horror. I had just chugged about 1/4 of a huge bottle of Peroxide. I slapped my boyfriend at the time numerous times to get him to wake up. "I just drank Peroxide!" I screamed. He laughed. "No, seriously!"
I'm frantically searching the bottle for Poison Control's phone number, or instructions saying to drink water, milk, something...he gets online and starts reading online threads about people who drink Peroxide to clean their systems out. I am now foaming at the mouth-literally. He finally calls the Poison Control center and has a good laugh with the guy manning the phones that night. "You can't drink water," he says. "And you might be foamy for a few days...".
So, I know you're wondering why I would have a huge bottle of Peroxide hanging out on my nightstand, right? Well apparently, I had cut myself earlier in the day while zip-lining and had used the Peroxide to clean my cut. Instead of going and putting it away, I was lazy and set it on the nightstand right next to a 1-liter bottle of Evian. Both had a domed top, and approximately the same sized lid. It was easy to mistake the two while half-asleep.
Let's just say that I now get sick at the sight of a bottle of Peroxide, and just thinking about it still gives me the chills. I can't even put into words how much it burned going down my throat, or how foamy it was after the fact. I don't even buy Peroxide anymore and refuse to use it on any cuts or scrapes. My current boyfriend knows this, and I swear the bottles of Peroxide I find under the bathroom sink (or on it, in this case) seem to be multiplying like rabbits. I hope he finds this funny, because I sure as hell do not.
Until next time,
Freeway Fairington
7 Tequilas Away from AA
You'll notice that many (actually, almost all) of my blogs currently revolve around instances happening in apartment complexes. That is because, lately, most of my best material occurs in such an environment. Sad, I know. Lucky for you, I'm planning a shopping excursion and some gym time for myself tomorrow so hopefully you'll get some different observances in the next few blogs. Maybe.
I recently spent a weekend at a friend's apartment while she was out of town. I got in some much needed pool time (and believe it or not, some tan lines) and relaxation. Well, to an extent. It wasn't just all play time for me-I was actually there child sitting (hate to call them babies when they're not), and of course, I had my overly needy dog with me, as well.
Her children and I had a great time at the pool, bowling, chowing down, and doing what kids get to do when their mom is out of town. Oh, don't worry, I think they asked at least ten times daily when their mom was coming home. I may be fun, but I'm no mommy.
On my last night sitting, we had just gotten home from eating at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants with my boyfriend. He had followed us home to return a cooler and help me get the kids into bed and ready for school the next morning. I quickly took the dog for a walk while he helped the kids get everything out of my car and into the house. When I returned to the apartment, I was told by one of the children that they had just received a lesson about strangers.
Apparently, an Hispanic male, who we'll call Miguel, approached my boyfriend while he emptied water out of the cooler. He begged for a drink. My boyfriend, being the nice, Southern guy that he is, asked Miguel, "Whatcha want? We got water, and we got beer...". Miguel chose beer, offered to pay for the two he was given, and when my boyfriend declined, continued on his way. No less than three minutes after having this story relayed to me, I was sitting outside on the curb with one of the children I was sitting for and my dog. We were just sitting around talking, waiting for the dog to do his business, when an Hispanic man, dressed in a uniform from a local Mexican restaurant approached us.
"Where he go?" He asked me with a thick accent, pointing to my boyfriend's truck.
"Mas cerveza?" I asked. I wasn't really sure why he else he would be looking for my boyfriend.
"No," he shook his head. "I need.....(this indicates drunken rambling)...friend. Whas his name?"
I told him my boyfriend's name and also explained that he was busy. The man sat down. I sent the child I was sitting for inside and told him to ask my boyfriend to come out and to stay inside with the door locked. The man began to ramble again. "I need a friend, pleeaase...".
Out comes my boyfriend, looking from me to the man. "Miguel," he says, "Why are you here?"
At this point, it's apparent that I am not needed. Miguel begins to tell my boyfriend that he is an alcoholic and that his wife will not let him into their apartment. He cries as he speaks about his 15 year old daughter, he talks and talks at length in a language that is not quite understandable. How the two communicate is beyond me. My boyfriend's accent is so Southern, that sometimes I can't even understand it (and I'm not joking either...it's like a whole different version of English!). Miguel is speaking Spanish, but it is so garbled, that it's difficult to make out what he's saying. Some words come out in English, but most of what he says is lost in the night, to which it has now turned.
Somehow, I'm volunteered to provide AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) information to Miguel in Spanish. I am also asked to knock on his apartment door, because for some reason in his drunken state it seems like a good idea. I would never open my door to a stranger, so it's beyond me why he thinks his wife or child will. Finally, after about three minutes of this ridiculousness, I leave. I help the kids finish up their homework and tuck them in. My boyfriend apparently calls Miguel's daughter and she helps him in the house. He gives her the AA information I had written down.
My boyfriend, wanting to see the perpetual goodness in people, believes he's broken through and that Miguel will be alright and get the help he needs. Miguel is 50 years old. He has been drinking most of his life. Not wanting to be a pessimist, I say nothing. I come from a long line of alcoholics, so I know that it is a disease. One beer, or one drink, often leads to too many to count.
Approximately two days later as I am driving to meet two of my best friends (and of course, my mother) for a yoga class, I see a familiar form walking along a busy highway. He is walking north with a black bag in hand. You know, the kind of black bag that you can only get from a liquor store. The bag, no doubt, holds a six-pack at the least. I turn to see the man's face, and undoubtedly, it's our "friend" Miguel. I call my boyfriend, laugh a little bit at the irony and then continue on to yoga. I know my boyfriend's disappointed, but he too laughs and says, "Well, at least we tried".
It was offered to us that we could come into the Mexican restaurant where Miguel works anytime and ask for him and receive any drink we wanted if we would just give him one more beer that night. I'm glad that we said no. His breath smelled strongly of tequila that night, and although he denied drinking it, he did admit to having, "one or two margaritas"...as if we didn't know that a margarita contained tequila. I'm interested to see if Miguel is there should we consider dining, or if he's still locked outside of his wife's apartment soliciting beers from those who are going to bed this Sunday evening after a weekend of partying.
Social Drinker Only (on Special Occasions),
Freeway Fairington
PS-While this blog is light-hearted in nature, I do take alcoholism and drug-addiction very seriously. If you or someone you know is an alcoholic, I urge you to find a support group or doctor to help you (or your loved one) with your condition.
I recently spent a weekend at a friend's apartment while she was out of town. I got in some much needed pool time (and believe it or not, some tan lines) and relaxation. Well, to an extent. It wasn't just all play time for me-I was actually there child sitting (hate to call them babies when they're not), and of course, I had my overly needy dog with me, as well.
Her children and I had a great time at the pool, bowling, chowing down, and doing what kids get to do when their mom is out of town. Oh, don't worry, I think they asked at least ten times daily when their mom was coming home. I may be fun, but I'm no mommy.
On my last night sitting, we had just gotten home from eating at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants with my boyfriend. He had followed us home to return a cooler and help me get the kids into bed and ready for school the next morning. I quickly took the dog for a walk while he helped the kids get everything out of my car and into the house. When I returned to the apartment, I was told by one of the children that they had just received a lesson about strangers.
Apparently, an Hispanic male, who we'll call Miguel, approached my boyfriend while he emptied water out of the cooler. He begged for a drink. My boyfriend, being the nice, Southern guy that he is, asked Miguel, "Whatcha want? We got water, and we got beer...". Miguel chose beer, offered to pay for the two he was given, and when my boyfriend declined, continued on his way. No less than three minutes after having this story relayed to me, I was sitting outside on the curb with one of the children I was sitting for and my dog. We were just sitting around talking, waiting for the dog to do his business, when an Hispanic man, dressed in a uniform from a local Mexican restaurant approached us.
"Where he go?" He asked me with a thick accent, pointing to my boyfriend's truck.
"Mas cerveza?" I asked. I wasn't really sure why he else he would be looking for my boyfriend.
"No," he shook his head. "I need.....(this indicates drunken rambling)...friend. Whas his name?"
I told him my boyfriend's name and also explained that he was busy. The man sat down. I sent the child I was sitting for inside and told him to ask my boyfriend to come out and to stay inside with the door locked. The man began to ramble again. "I need a friend, pleeaase...".
Out comes my boyfriend, looking from me to the man. "Miguel," he says, "Why are you here?"
At this point, it's apparent that I am not needed. Miguel begins to tell my boyfriend that he is an alcoholic and that his wife will not let him into their apartment. He cries as he speaks about his 15 year old daughter, he talks and talks at length in a language that is not quite understandable. How the two communicate is beyond me. My boyfriend's accent is so Southern, that sometimes I can't even understand it (and I'm not joking either...it's like a whole different version of English!). Miguel is speaking Spanish, but it is so garbled, that it's difficult to make out what he's saying. Some words come out in English, but most of what he says is lost in the night, to which it has now turned.
Somehow, I'm volunteered to provide AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) information to Miguel in Spanish. I am also asked to knock on his apartment door, because for some reason in his drunken state it seems like a good idea. I would never open my door to a stranger, so it's beyond me why he thinks his wife or child will. Finally, after about three minutes of this ridiculousness, I leave. I help the kids finish up their homework and tuck them in. My boyfriend apparently calls Miguel's daughter and she helps him in the house. He gives her the AA information I had written down.
My boyfriend, wanting to see the perpetual goodness in people, believes he's broken through and that Miguel will be alright and get the help he needs. Miguel is 50 years old. He has been drinking most of his life. Not wanting to be a pessimist, I say nothing. I come from a long line of alcoholics, so I know that it is a disease. One beer, or one drink, often leads to too many to count.
Approximately two days later as I am driving to meet two of my best friends (and of course, my mother) for a yoga class, I see a familiar form walking along a busy highway. He is walking north with a black bag in hand. You know, the kind of black bag that you can only get from a liquor store. The bag, no doubt, holds a six-pack at the least. I turn to see the man's face, and undoubtedly, it's our "friend" Miguel. I call my boyfriend, laugh a little bit at the irony and then continue on to yoga. I know my boyfriend's disappointed, but he too laughs and says, "Well, at least we tried".
It was offered to us that we could come into the Mexican restaurant where Miguel works anytime and ask for him and receive any drink we wanted if we would just give him one more beer that night. I'm glad that we said no. His breath smelled strongly of tequila that night, and although he denied drinking it, he did admit to having, "one or two margaritas"...as if we didn't know that a margarita contained tequila. I'm interested to see if Miguel is there should we consider dining, or if he's still locked outside of his wife's apartment soliciting beers from those who are going to bed this Sunday evening after a weekend of partying.
Social Drinker Only (on Special Occasions),
Freeway Fairington
PS-While this blog is light-hearted in nature, I do take alcoholism and drug-addiction very seriously. If you or someone you know is an alcoholic, I urge you to find a support group or doctor to help you (or your loved one) with your condition.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Mi Barrio (aka My 'Hood)
It's a quiet Sunday here in my apartment complex. No one's at the swimming pool (it's closed, like always). No one is down at the river yet. Nope, things don't get poppin' out here til about dark. And then, it's like...I don't even know how to describe it. Maybe detailing my neighbors (minus the stalker that you all already know about) will help.
I have a tendency to choose low-rent apartment complexes to live in. Yes, I can afford the more expensive ones, but I just don't see the point of throwing away my money (and entertainment) to live in an overly-priced, exceptionally small apartment that looks exactly like the 25 year old-ish one that I rent for approximately two-thirds less. You wouldn't know by seeing the inside of my apartment that it was probably built in 1980-something. It's a gated community. It's close to the major interstates and downtown. It is also a mecca for the working-class American (and wanna-be American). And I love it.
My favorite neighbor is Ola. He is from Africa, is always dressed to the nines, and sells luxury cars-through Auto-Trader. He is quiet, keeps to himself, and was kind enough to help my boyfriend and I move our furniture in when we first signed our lease at this apartment (and no, he didn't rob us).
My next door neighbor is okay, she has two boyfriends...it's always a show-down when one arrives before the semi live-in boyfriend leaves. My dog (who also understands Spanish) and I often watch heated arguments in the parking lot during his nightly walk. It's like Destinos, but better. The scents wafting from her apartment always smell good...better than any Mexican restaurant that you've ever been to, and her music is...well, I don't really enjoy her music. While I love, love, love me some El General and Enrique Iglesias (en Espanol), I'm not a fan of the Mexican-restaurant(ish) music that blares next door until midnight. But, at least she's respectful and the music is turned off early and doesn't come back on until late in the am.
Now...everyone probably already knows about my least-favorite neighbors because I complain about them often. I have a very strong dislike for Lan-Lan and Honey, as well as their members-only Vietnam Vet era Pimp. I wish I was making this up, but this is the complete and total truth. From 11:30pm until 6:30am when Honey leaves for whatever her "real" job is, there is incessant and incredibly loud noise from the bedroom above mine. There is no furniture in the living room, only a faint bluish-tinted light. A bright light, however, glares from the bedroom above mine. It is always glowing-a sign to customers, that Lan-Lan and Honey are open for business. Oh yes, I'm 99.9% sure that an illegal "massage parlor" is being operated upstairs. And I'm 100% certain that it comes with "happy ending". This has been going on since we moved in, and I can honestly say that I have not gotten one complete, full-night of sleep since October of last year. I absolutely DESPISE Lan-Lan and Honey...and their Pimp too. He drives one of those roller-skate looking cars for god sakes. How do you pimp a couple of middle-aged Asian women in one of those? I'm just wondering.
Now, the other side of the building, I like. There's my taxi-cab driver friends. They know how to party at a 10 and keep it at a 2. There's an old car-wash station at the end of our building where they've set up lawn chairs, a trash bag, and a beer station. They are truly good guys...any man who names their puppy Bella and will sit and call out to my severely anti-social dog by name each time I walk him and wave to me (note-not stalk me) is a good man in my book. And then, there's the Mariachi band that practices next door. They aren't very good, but it's always funny to hear them (except for the nights when I want to go to bed early).
The only other downside to this complex besides my stalker and Lan-Lan and Honey, is the fact that for some reason I've been mistaken for a prostitute on multiple occasions while walking my dog. Seriously, an unshowered woman with her hair unbrushed and tangled, in yoga pants and a t-shirt walking her dog is a prostitute? Just last night, a red car came to a complete stop and the man inside said, "Hola...". I just glared at him until he drove off. Come on dude, I'm walking my dog, not standing on or near any corner. Perhaps that's a job I should consider if worst comes to worst...it seems I'm already one step ahead of the game as far as looks go. Lol, that really scares me.
I, of course, won't disclose where I live...but, there are millions of apartment complexes like this one spread out all over the country. I just have that special knack for finding them.
Moving in Less than a Month,
Freeway Fairington
I have a tendency to choose low-rent apartment complexes to live in. Yes, I can afford the more expensive ones, but I just don't see the point of throwing away my money (and entertainment) to live in an overly-priced, exceptionally small apartment that looks exactly like the 25 year old-ish one that I rent for approximately two-thirds less. You wouldn't know by seeing the inside of my apartment that it was probably built in 1980-something. It's a gated community. It's close to the major interstates and downtown. It is also a mecca for the working-class American (and wanna-be American). And I love it.
My favorite neighbor is Ola. He is from Africa, is always dressed to the nines, and sells luxury cars-through Auto-Trader. He is quiet, keeps to himself, and was kind enough to help my boyfriend and I move our furniture in when we first signed our lease at this apartment (and no, he didn't rob us).
My next door neighbor is okay, she has two boyfriends...it's always a show-down when one arrives before the semi live-in boyfriend leaves. My dog (who also understands Spanish) and I often watch heated arguments in the parking lot during his nightly walk. It's like Destinos, but better. The scents wafting from her apartment always smell good...better than any Mexican restaurant that you've ever been to, and her music is...well, I don't really enjoy her music. While I love, love, love me some El General and Enrique Iglesias (en Espanol), I'm not a fan of the Mexican-restaurant(ish) music that blares next door until midnight. But, at least she's respectful and the music is turned off early and doesn't come back on until late in the am.
Now...everyone probably already knows about my least-favorite neighbors because I complain about them often. I have a very strong dislike for Lan-Lan and Honey, as well as their members-only Vietnam Vet era Pimp. I wish I was making this up, but this is the complete and total truth. From 11:30pm until 6:30am when Honey leaves for whatever her "real" job is, there is incessant and incredibly loud noise from the bedroom above mine. There is no furniture in the living room, only a faint bluish-tinted light. A bright light, however, glares from the bedroom above mine. It is always glowing-a sign to customers, that Lan-Lan and Honey are open for business. Oh yes, I'm 99.9% sure that an illegal "massage parlor" is being operated upstairs. And I'm 100% certain that it comes with "happy ending". This has been going on since we moved in, and I can honestly say that I have not gotten one complete, full-night of sleep since October of last year. I absolutely DESPISE Lan-Lan and Honey...and their Pimp too. He drives one of those roller-skate looking cars for god sakes. How do you pimp a couple of middle-aged Asian women in one of those? I'm just wondering.
Now, the other side of the building, I like. There's my taxi-cab driver friends. They know how to party at a 10 and keep it at a 2. There's an old car-wash station at the end of our building where they've set up lawn chairs, a trash bag, and a beer station. They are truly good guys...any man who names their puppy Bella and will sit and call out to my severely anti-social dog by name each time I walk him and wave to me (note-not stalk me) is a good man in my book. And then, there's the Mariachi band that practices next door. They aren't very good, but it's always funny to hear them (except for the nights when I want to go to bed early).
The only other downside to this complex besides my stalker and Lan-Lan and Honey, is the fact that for some reason I've been mistaken for a prostitute on multiple occasions while walking my dog. Seriously, an unshowered woman with her hair unbrushed and tangled, in yoga pants and a t-shirt walking her dog is a prostitute? Just last night, a red car came to a complete stop and the man inside said, "Hola...". I just glared at him until he drove off. Come on dude, I'm walking my dog, not standing on or near any corner. Perhaps that's a job I should consider if worst comes to worst...it seems I'm already one step ahead of the game as far as looks go. Lol, that really scares me.
I, of course, won't disclose where I live...but, there are millions of apartment complexes like this one spread out all over the country. I just have that special knack for finding them.
Moving in Less than a Month,
Freeway Fairington
Ooh La La
I've never really been a fan of the French. French bread, french fries, french champagne maybe...but not France itself. My oldest sister has been trying to force their culture on me since childhood. First making me learn the alphabet and how to count in French, then by sharing stories of her love life with a man I'll call Pepe Le Pew.
My main issue with France and the French people is their overly strong dislike for all that is American. Just what, exactly, did we do? So what if we wear deodorant (you sure need it in the South) or our breasts are too big to fit into a wine glass? So what if we love McDonald's and obesity instead of nibbling on our cheese and wine? I like bread, damnit! Ok, ok, you get my point. (By the way, did I mention I hate scarves?).
So anyway, my sister has this man who we'll say is a "love interest" of hers. He is very intelligent, works as a researcher at a world-renowned University here in the state of Georgia, is supposedly very good-looking, and has a fetish for butts. Specifically, the opening to the butt. Yes, I really did just say that. He likes anuses.
Now let me add this quick disclaimer before I continue: a) I have permission from my sister to write about this man, as well as this subject, and b) I never use real names in any of my blogs because that just wouldn't be right...even if given permission, all subjects in any blog are given a false name or moniker (that's just how I do).
Back to Pepe Le Pew. I think it is probably best that I have never seen or met him. I am allowed to therefore imagine him any way that I would like to in my mind, as are you. I first became aware of his existence (and anus fetish) on a trip to Florida with my sister. He texted her constantly with very inappropriate messages of what he wanted to do to her anus. In improper English. I laughed so hard I cried. I'm sorry, but when you are of what you deem a Superior Society to my own, and you work at a University as a researcher, I expect you to know English. "I want to anal you so hard right now" does not give me a pretty image. Nor, would it turn me on.
I expect that he still sends her these obscene messages. Last I heard, he was upset about me texting her late one evening asking how her anus was and telling her that it was her favorite sister writing to her (she had lost her phone for the umpteenth time, and of course, my number along with it). My nickname could be mistaken for a man, especially if you are not familiar with my real name (which, ironically, is of French origin). He became very angry with her and accused her of seeing another man. Ouch, I'm offended. I do know that she bought him some Old Spice deodorant for his birthday. So, at least our dear Pepe Le Pew will smell good and maybe have a little swagger left after my sister takes her next anal beating.
Keep Those Booties Covered,
Freeway Fairington
PS-Mom, I hope you chose NOT to read this posting!!!
My main issue with France and the French people is their overly strong dislike for all that is American. Just what, exactly, did we do? So what if we wear deodorant (you sure need it in the South) or our breasts are too big to fit into a wine glass? So what if we love McDonald's and obesity instead of nibbling on our cheese and wine? I like bread, damnit! Ok, ok, you get my point. (By the way, did I mention I hate scarves?).
So anyway, my sister has this man who we'll say is a "love interest" of hers. He is very intelligent, works as a researcher at a world-renowned University here in the state of Georgia, is supposedly very good-looking, and has a fetish for butts. Specifically, the opening to the butt. Yes, I really did just say that. He likes anuses.
Now let me add this quick disclaimer before I continue: a) I have permission from my sister to write about this man, as well as this subject, and b) I never use real names in any of my blogs because that just wouldn't be right...even if given permission, all subjects in any blog are given a false name or moniker (that's just how I do).
Back to Pepe Le Pew. I think it is probably best that I have never seen or met him. I am allowed to therefore imagine him any way that I would like to in my mind, as are you. I first became aware of his existence (and anus fetish) on a trip to Florida with my sister. He texted her constantly with very inappropriate messages of what he wanted to do to her anus. In improper English. I laughed so hard I cried. I'm sorry, but when you are of what you deem a Superior Society to my own, and you work at a University as a researcher, I expect you to know English. "I want to anal you so hard right now" does not give me a pretty image. Nor, would it turn me on.
I expect that he still sends her these obscene messages. Last I heard, he was upset about me texting her late one evening asking how her anus was and telling her that it was her favorite sister writing to her (she had lost her phone for the umpteenth time, and of course, my number along with it). My nickname could be mistaken for a man, especially if you are not familiar with my real name (which, ironically, is of French origin). He became very angry with her and accused her of seeing another man. Ouch, I'm offended. I do know that she bought him some Old Spice deodorant for his birthday. So, at least our dear Pepe Le Pew will smell good and maybe have a little swagger left after my sister takes her next anal beating.
Keep Those Booties Covered,
Freeway Fairington
PS-Mom, I hope you chose NOT to read this posting!!!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Excuse Me, but Can You Please Stop Stalking Me?!?
I've had four stalkers in my lifetime. Well, that I know of. Two in high school (one that carried over into the Facebook era), one at a previous place of employment, and now one (possibly more) in my overly "hood" apartment complex.
I have yet to figure out what drew, or draws, these people to me. Regardless, it creeps me out. In high school, it was easy to dismiss it as a pubescent crush gone awry and one that would eventually end. And as far as my very first stalker is concerned, it did. My second high school stalker did not know me in high school...we had no classes together, and honestly, I never knew who this person was until a friend of mine told me that he was basically obsessed with me. I kept my distance, graduated, and managed to not run into this person until many years later when I joined Facebook.
Like an idiot, I accepted his "friend" request. We, of course, were not (and never had been) friends, but let's all admit it now, that's what Facebook is for. You friend somebody, catch up on them and any gossip you can dig up, have a good laugh at how some people turned out, and then you move on. I mean, come on, who really has 4,000+ friends? Really? So anyway, shortly after accepting his request, the emails started. Then the instant messaging. Thankfully, you can delete people and block them...too bad this isn't the case in real life. To his credit, I have not been bothered by him since.
When I was 19 years old, I worked as a contracted employee for one of the world's largest computer manufacturers. The building I worked out of was considered huge to me at that time (my first "desk job"), and there were hundreds of employees spanning nine floors that were considered to be my co-workers. Randomly one day, I received an instant message on the company's internal version of AIM or Yahoo Messenger from a MAN that I did not know and had never met. Thinking he had messaged the wrong person, I ignored him. Um, bad decision. He continually messaged me day after day telling me how beautiful I was, asking me on dates, telling me about his divorce and children, etc. I was bothered, but not scared. That is, until the day I walked out to my car and discovered the fish flowers.
At the time, I drove a gunmetal-colored Mustang (hold your jokes about the car please). Never once had I seen anyone suspicious or unknown to me watch me get into my car. However, on this particular day when I left work, there was a bouquet of flowers that smelled disgustingly like fish and a Precious Moments card. I actually shuddered as I read the card and felt vomit creeping up in the back of my throat. Luckily for me, my mom also worked for this same company and was able to have HR handle the situation. It never escalated further than the fish bouquet and weird card...I thank God for that.
I thought after the aforementioned situations that I was all done with stalkers. I'm aging, I've definitely put on some weight, and let's face it...there's really nothing "stalkable" about me. At least, that's what I thought...
I'm sure that everyone remembers my dog...yes, the vampire. Well, as I was out walking him along the river that runs through my apartment complex one evening (bad scene from a horror movie flashes through my mind), I was flagged down by a Hispanic man and the couple he was with. Being neighborly, I waved and said hello. Baaaaddddd decision. The Hispanic man chased me and my dog down and decided to interrogate me. He only found out my dog's name, while I managed to gather the information that he was a native of El Salvador, one of twelve children (many of his siblings apparently also live in this complex), that he works for a moving company near downtown Atlanta, and oh, that he's in love with me. That's right, he's in love with me. WTF?
I went a couple of weeks without seeing this man, until one day while I was walking my dog he approached us and told me that he'd been coming outside, "three, four times a day" looking for me. Um, excuse me? I told him that this was not normal, and was in fact, rather creepy. He didn't seem to understand and asked me for my phone number. I told him no, I had a boyfriend, and that I was most definitely not interested in him. Not now, not ever.
The next time that I saw him, he was drunk and leaving the pool. He asked me on a date. I repeated my lack of interest and asked him to please leave me alone. He then offered me a Modelo. I declined. I thought maybe he had understood because until two days ago, I did not see him for more than a month.
I thought that my luck was finally turning until today, when I was walking my dog. It was like the twilight zone or something. Here comes my stalker, a friend of his, and one of his brothers, Jose. All are extremely drunk. My stalker starts asking me where I've been and tells me that MY NEIGHBOR has been calling to tell him approximately what time I walk my dog every morning. Um thanks, I'm glad to see that you've resorted to recruiting my neighbor to assist your stalking me. Thank God that my stalker told me he's already at work every day when he finds out I'm walking the dog. And then his friend...rattling off in Spanish about my star tattoo behind my ear. Tells my stalker he's right, I'm beautiful. And then more about the star tattoo. And then there's Jose, my stalker's brother. Jose is huge, but not very tall. A drunk that you can tell is friendly one minute, but not the next. When I tell him he doesn't need to drink anymore beer (talk about some stank breath), he pulls out a bottle of tequila and offers it to me. He is speaking Spanglish. Somehow I escape the three after firmly telling them about a thousand times that no, I don't want the tequila, and that my dog really needs to eat dinner.
Seriously, who does that? A) Pick a language and stick to it when you're speaking to me. B) It's creepy enough that you're stalking me, please don't recruit my neighbors to help you...that's just weird. C) No, I will NOT get you a green card. So um, about that...will you please stop stalking me?!
Currently in Hiding,
Freeway Fairington
I have yet to figure out what drew, or draws, these people to me. Regardless, it creeps me out. In high school, it was easy to dismiss it as a pubescent crush gone awry and one that would eventually end. And as far as my very first stalker is concerned, it did. My second high school stalker did not know me in high school...we had no classes together, and honestly, I never knew who this person was until a friend of mine told me that he was basically obsessed with me. I kept my distance, graduated, and managed to not run into this person until many years later when I joined Facebook.
Like an idiot, I accepted his "friend" request. We, of course, were not (and never had been) friends, but let's all admit it now, that's what Facebook is for. You friend somebody, catch up on them and any gossip you can dig up, have a good laugh at how some people turned out, and then you move on. I mean, come on, who really has 4,000+ friends? Really? So anyway, shortly after accepting his request, the emails started. Then the instant messaging. Thankfully, you can delete people and block them...too bad this isn't the case in real life. To his credit, I have not been bothered by him since.
When I was 19 years old, I worked as a contracted employee for one of the world's largest computer manufacturers. The building I worked out of was considered huge to me at that time (my first "desk job"), and there were hundreds of employees spanning nine floors that were considered to be my co-workers. Randomly one day, I received an instant message on the company's internal version of AIM or Yahoo Messenger from a MAN that I did not know and had never met. Thinking he had messaged the wrong person, I ignored him. Um, bad decision. He continually messaged me day after day telling me how beautiful I was, asking me on dates, telling me about his divorce and children, etc. I was bothered, but not scared. That is, until the day I walked out to my car and discovered the fish flowers.
At the time, I drove a gunmetal-colored Mustang (hold your jokes about the car please). Never once had I seen anyone suspicious or unknown to me watch me get into my car. However, on this particular day when I left work, there was a bouquet of flowers that smelled disgustingly like fish and a Precious Moments card. I actually shuddered as I read the card and felt vomit creeping up in the back of my throat. Luckily for me, my mom also worked for this same company and was able to have HR handle the situation. It never escalated further than the fish bouquet and weird card...I thank God for that.
I thought after the aforementioned situations that I was all done with stalkers. I'm aging, I've definitely put on some weight, and let's face it...there's really nothing "stalkable" about me. At least, that's what I thought...
I'm sure that everyone remembers my dog...yes, the vampire. Well, as I was out walking him along the river that runs through my apartment complex one evening (bad scene from a horror movie flashes through my mind), I was flagged down by a Hispanic man and the couple he was with. Being neighborly, I waved and said hello. Baaaaddddd decision. The Hispanic man chased me and my dog down and decided to interrogate me. He only found out my dog's name, while I managed to gather the information that he was a native of El Salvador, one of twelve children (many of his siblings apparently also live in this complex), that he works for a moving company near downtown Atlanta, and oh, that he's in love with me. That's right, he's in love with me. WTF?
I went a couple of weeks without seeing this man, until one day while I was walking my dog he approached us and told me that he'd been coming outside, "three, four times a day" looking for me. Um, excuse me? I told him that this was not normal, and was in fact, rather creepy. He didn't seem to understand and asked me for my phone number. I told him no, I had a boyfriend, and that I was most definitely not interested in him. Not now, not ever.
The next time that I saw him, he was drunk and leaving the pool. He asked me on a date. I repeated my lack of interest and asked him to please leave me alone. He then offered me a Modelo. I declined. I thought maybe he had understood because until two days ago, I did not see him for more than a month.
I thought that my luck was finally turning until today, when I was walking my dog. It was like the twilight zone or something. Here comes my stalker, a friend of his, and one of his brothers, Jose. All are extremely drunk. My stalker starts asking me where I've been and tells me that MY NEIGHBOR has been calling to tell him approximately what time I walk my dog every morning. Um thanks, I'm glad to see that you've resorted to recruiting my neighbor to assist your stalking me. Thank God that my stalker told me he's already at work every day when he finds out I'm walking the dog. And then his friend...rattling off in Spanish about my star tattoo behind my ear. Tells my stalker he's right, I'm beautiful. And then more about the star tattoo. And then there's Jose, my stalker's brother. Jose is huge, but not very tall. A drunk that you can tell is friendly one minute, but not the next. When I tell him he doesn't need to drink anymore beer (talk about some stank breath), he pulls out a bottle of tequila and offers it to me. He is speaking Spanglish. Somehow I escape the three after firmly telling them about a thousand times that no, I don't want the tequila, and that my dog really needs to eat dinner.
Seriously, who does that? A) Pick a language and stick to it when you're speaking to me. B) It's creepy enough that you're stalking me, please don't recruit my neighbors to help you...that's just weird. C) No, I will NOT get you a green card. So um, about that...will you please stop stalking me?!
Currently in Hiding,
Freeway Fairington
*A Note from Your Beloved Blogger*
Dear Readers,
I know that you've been wondering for the last month or so about where all of the cowboys have gone. Well, quite frankly, so have I. My only guess is that perhaps they have switched sides and are now drug lords in Mexico and Colombia. I hear that there's more money to be made in that line of work...
No, in all seriousness, you can blame Star 94 and their 90s Weekend for that lame joke. :)
As you all have been, I too have been busy. But, the good news is that I'm baaaaacccccckk!
You're about to be reading some seriously funny blogs with a vengeance. Yeah, you can thank me later. I only have one favor to ask of you (since google disabled my AdSense account...)-please follow me on this page and "like" me on FaceBook. I promise not to disappoint. And if I ever find those cowboys, I'll let you know.
Peace, Love, and Karma,
Freeway Fairington
I know that you've been wondering for the last month or so about where all of the cowboys have gone. Well, quite frankly, so have I. My only guess is that perhaps they have switched sides and are now drug lords in Mexico and Colombia. I hear that there's more money to be made in that line of work...
No, in all seriousness, you can blame Star 94 and their 90s Weekend for that lame joke. :)
As you all have been, I too have been busy. But, the good news is that I'm baaaaacccccckk!
You're about to be reading some seriously funny blogs with a vengeance. Yeah, you can thank me later. I only have one favor to ask of you (since google disabled my AdSense account...)-please follow me on this page and "like" me on FaceBook. I promise not to disappoint. And if I ever find those cowboys, I'll let you know.
Peace, Love, and Karma,
Freeway Fairington
Monday, June 27, 2011
My Dog, the Vampire
*Warning: If you do not have a dog for a pet, or are not a dog "person" then you may find this post somewhat repulsive and/or concerning. However, if you do have a pet dog, then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
I recently adopted a dog from a local shelter during one of their "adoption days" at a local Pet Superstore. The dog I chose is a Chipin, or a Chihuahua-Miniature Pinscher mix. He's adorable, only weighs ten pounds on a good day, and seemed like he wouldn't mind living in my apartment too much.
Within the first hour of "owning" him, he bit me and pooped on my shirt. He hated the treats that the shelter recommended to me, and getting a leash around his neck was like trying to lasso a bull. I must say, we've come a long way since that first day. We're so close, in fact, that he hates to leave my side and wants to be a part of EVERYTHING I do. And when I say everything, I mean everything. If I'm taking a shower, he has to be right outside the tub. If I need to use the restroom, he has to come in the bathroom with me. You get the point.
So then, it should have been no surprise to me when I learned that he had a special affection for trash. Not just trash in general, but my trash. And not all trash, but preferably trash that contained some type of my bodily fluid. He has a particular preference for blood.
The first time I caught him with trash, he was lying beneath my dining room table with two shredded tissues that had been used to blow my nose, and I hate to say this, but a used feminine item. I know, it's gross. I freaked out, texted my best friend, and found out that her dogs too had a thing for, ahem, trash. He'll still sneak out a used tissue from time to time, but I've mostly learned my lesson by keeping the trash out of his reach.
However, as you'll recall from my last post, I recently had facial surgery. On my nose. So of course, there was a plethora of bloody tissues in the trash can. He didn't get much time alone with that trash, but he was able to shred, eat, destroy, and only God knows what else with those tissues in that short period of time.
And then there was the time that I sliced through my thumbnail with a vegetable peeler. He was right there trying to lick the blood away. Any scratch, any cut...he wants to lick it clean and then lick it some more. The only conclusion that I can come to is that my dog, my sweet, sweet dog, was a Vampire in another life. How else could such a tiny animal have such a thirst for blood? I am truly baffled.
Currently Blood-Free,
Freeway Fairington
I recently adopted a dog from a local shelter during one of their "adoption days" at a local Pet Superstore. The dog I chose is a Chipin, or a Chihuahua-Miniature Pinscher mix. He's adorable, only weighs ten pounds on a good day, and seemed like he wouldn't mind living in my apartment too much.
Within the first hour of "owning" him, he bit me and pooped on my shirt. He hated the treats that the shelter recommended to me, and getting a leash around his neck was like trying to lasso a bull. I must say, we've come a long way since that first day. We're so close, in fact, that he hates to leave my side and wants to be a part of EVERYTHING I do. And when I say everything, I mean everything. If I'm taking a shower, he has to be right outside the tub. If I need to use the restroom, he has to come in the bathroom with me. You get the point.
So then, it should have been no surprise to me when I learned that he had a special affection for trash. Not just trash in general, but my trash. And not all trash, but preferably trash that contained some type of my bodily fluid. He has a particular preference for blood.
The first time I caught him with trash, he was lying beneath my dining room table with two shredded tissues that had been used to blow my nose, and I hate to say this, but a used feminine item. I know, it's gross. I freaked out, texted my best friend, and found out that her dogs too had a thing for, ahem, trash. He'll still sneak out a used tissue from time to time, but I've mostly learned my lesson by keeping the trash out of his reach.
However, as you'll recall from my last post, I recently had facial surgery. On my nose. So of course, there was a plethora of bloody tissues in the trash can. He didn't get much time alone with that trash, but he was able to shred, eat, destroy, and only God knows what else with those tissues in that short period of time.
And then there was the time that I sliced through my thumbnail with a vegetable peeler. He was right there trying to lick the blood away. Any scratch, any cut...he wants to lick it clean and then lick it some more. The only conclusion that I can come to is that my dog, my sweet, sweet dog, was a Vampire in another life. How else could such a tiny animal have such a thirst for blood? I am truly baffled.
Currently Blood-Free,
Freeway Fairington
Sunday, June 19, 2011
I've Been Hibiclensed!
It's 4:30 in the morning on a Friday. My alarm is going off incessantly in my ear. My dog is licking my face. I am grouchy. The fact that it's 4:30 am on a Friday is reason enough for me to already be in a bad mood, but what's worse is that I can't eat or even drink water as my plans for the day revolve around going to the hospital for surgery.
The previous afternoon, the nurse that called to do my pre-op instructions by phone told me that I would need to purchase a product called Hibiclens and wash with it from the neck down that evening, and then again the morning of surgery. She stated it was to, "help prevent infection". I was a little skeptical of this since the surgery I was scheduled for was facial surgery...but hey, I didn't go to nursing school, and I don't work in a hospital. I did as instructed and purchased the Hibiclens (located in the First Aid aisle, and ridiculously overpriced) at my local pharmacy and then came home to shower.
Before showering, I read the label on the box. "Do not get in eyes-will cause blindness. Do not get in or near ears-will cause deafness"...ummm, my heartbeat quickens a little bit. I'm a very clumsy person. I'm about to get in the shower, where water has the tendency to make liquid products go places where they probably shouldn't go. This could be bad. Very bad.
As I'm showering, I'm allowed to do all the normal stuff first-I just have to save the Hibiclens for last. It's in a pastel teal container (if that's possible) that looks eerily similar to a bottle of Calamine Lotion. The "soap" (?) is extremely watered-down and is almost burgundy in color, it pours out much faster than I was anticipating. I hesitantly begin to rub the soap into my skin, extra careful to avoid those parts that definitely don't want to have anything to do with this potentially blinding and deafening soap. And then I rinse for an approximate extra ten minutes. No, I'm not joking, I really do and am quite certain that my next water bill will reflect this. As soon as I step out of the shower, I begin to itch all over my body. Of course. I would be allergic to the stuff. I checked the box the "soap" came in one more time. No lie, the website listed for more information was www.hibigeebies.com. WTF?
I apply lotion before going to bed, although I'm fairly certain that I'm NOT supposed to do this, since I'm supposed to shower again the following morning using the same toxic "soap"...but, the nurse didn't say I couldn't, so...
I still don't know if my "soap" prevented me from contracting any kind of weird mutant hospital bugs while in surgery, but I appear to be alive, well, and normal (for myself anyway). And even if I had been infected, it wouldn't matter because I only used the soap on my body and not my face where I was actually being operated on...
Now, if anyone ever tells me that they're scared or feel something along the line of the "hibigeebies", I can tell them not to worry because there's a soap for that and to trust me because, "I've been Hibiclensed!".
Hibigeebie Free,
Freeway Fairington
The previous afternoon, the nurse that called to do my pre-op instructions by phone told me that I would need to purchase a product called Hibiclens and wash with it from the neck down that evening, and then again the morning of surgery. She stated it was to, "help prevent infection". I was a little skeptical of this since the surgery I was scheduled for was facial surgery...but hey, I didn't go to nursing school, and I don't work in a hospital. I did as instructed and purchased the Hibiclens (located in the First Aid aisle, and ridiculously overpriced) at my local pharmacy and then came home to shower.
Before showering, I read the label on the box. "Do not get in eyes-will cause blindness. Do not get in or near ears-will cause deafness"...ummm, my heartbeat quickens a little bit. I'm a very clumsy person. I'm about to get in the shower, where water has the tendency to make liquid products go places where they probably shouldn't go. This could be bad. Very bad.
As I'm showering, I'm allowed to do all the normal stuff first-I just have to save the Hibiclens for last. It's in a pastel teal container (if that's possible) that looks eerily similar to a bottle of Calamine Lotion. The "soap" (?) is extremely watered-down and is almost burgundy in color, it pours out much faster than I was anticipating. I hesitantly begin to rub the soap into my skin, extra careful to avoid those parts that definitely don't want to have anything to do with this potentially blinding and deafening soap. And then I rinse for an approximate extra ten minutes. No, I'm not joking, I really do and am quite certain that my next water bill will reflect this. As soon as I step out of the shower, I begin to itch all over my body. Of course. I would be allergic to the stuff. I checked the box the "soap" came in one more time. No lie, the website listed for more information was www.hibigeebies.com. WTF?
I apply lotion before going to bed, although I'm fairly certain that I'm NOT supposed to do this, since I'm supposed to shower again the following morning using the same toxic "soap"...but, the nurse didn't say I couldn't, so...
I still don't know if my "soap" prevented me from contracting any kind of weird mutant hospital bugs while in surgery, but I appear to be alive, well, and normal (for myself anyway). And even if I had been infected, it wouldn't matter because I only used the soap on my body and not my face where I was actually being operated on...
Now, if anyone ever tells me that they're scared or feel something along the line of the "hibigeebies", I can tell them not to worry because there's a soap for that and to trust me because, "I've been Hibiclensed!".
Hibigeebie Free,
Freeway Fairington
Saturday, June 11, 2011
You Can Thank Me for Your Boyfriend
I don't recall if I saw it in a movie or read it in a book, but I am the girlfriend that a guy dates before he gets married, so to speak. (Only one that I know of is now actually married, but you get my gist).
It's almost ironic now, but my seventeen year old self once made a collage of words and images, and on this particular collage (which still hangs prominently in my old bedroom at my parent's house) there is a comic strip. Orange in background, it presents an awkward party scene: girl standing and looking desperate to get away; geeky guy standing in front of her, drink in hand and pocket protector on his short-sleeved 1950s-style dress shirt saying, "Are you interested in a fixer-upper?". I kid you not, this is the epitomy of my love life. Sigh.
Here are some examples:
Boyfriend #1: The Immature Bastard
This boyfriend wasn't really actually ever my "official" boyfriend, but we dated off and on for a few years. He was a habitual liar, charming, but a liar nonetheless, who was semi-obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. Bad things that he did to me included stealing my car from my place of employment and rear-ending his ex's car, used me for countless rides to I don't even know where, and repeatedly lied about any and everything. I suspect he probably stole from me a couple of times, and then there was that time I caught him reading my journal. (Ha! The prick got what he deserved). Worse things that I did to him to teach him a lesson: left him on the side of a major interstate when he wouldn't stop speaking to me disrespectfully, created a list with my best friend of reasons why I couldn't have sex with him (this made the "I have to wash my hair excuse" pale in comparison to any excuses we made up), had some of my "boys" teach him a lesson about lying and stealing, and called the cops to report that he had driven through an apartment community gate along with a full-description of his soon to be disabled non-registered and non-licensed car. Needless to say, we eventually parted ways and fell out of touch...amicably, I'll add. He went on to finish Real Estate school (before the market got too bad), moved to another state, and now has a beautiful daughter. He was the boyfriend who just needed some maturing under his belt.
Boyfriend #2: The Inexperienced Drug-Addict
My inexperienced drug-addict boyfriend had a good heart and was a free spirit looking for a fun time. He also apparently did way too much Acid in high-school. I never was quite certain if he was just that dumb and goofy, or if he was the way he was because of all of the drugs he had ingested over the years. I was only the second girl to date him (Boyfriend #1 made sure to tell me this and that everyone thought he was gay because of this-they were "friends") so he was very inexperienced in the, ahem, love department...almost comically so. We didn't date long because he was always looking for a party and a place to get high. Somehow he managed to stay out of jail and keep a job while we were together. He was the one who called me randomly every few months to ask to see me or to just keep in touch, and, of course, look for a party. He too now has a child, and just recently got married.
Boyfriend #3: The Drama-King/Alcoholic
This boyfriend went to a small college within commuting distance of one of the top party schools in the United States. He was older than me, cocky as hell, and as far as I could see, someone who posed a challenge that needed to be put in his place. I should have known that when he showed up for our first date with a soda in his hand that something was up. See, he was 21 and I was only 19. I think we went bowling and he ended up going home. I never saw him sober again after that. Once, I found him lying in between the couch and the coffee table in my living room babbling some nonsense about how I needed to go to the party school because where I was attending college didn't matter. My roommate came out of her bedroom to see what the problem was and immediately started laughing. He talked constantly during his drunken rambles of wanting to be a Firefighter, but alcohol was far more important it seemed, because all he did was just that-talk. And drink.
On what was to be our one-year anniversary, I foolishly booked a room at a nice hotel in the downtown area near where we lived. I had my mom go with me to the nearest liquor store to purchase Moet (big in all the rap songs of that time) and a bottle of Martini and Rossi Asti (still my favorite drink). I got dressed up nice, fixed my hair (that's BIG for me!) and drove downtown. The jerk never showed or returned my calls. According to my phone bill when I checked out of the room (yes, it was $1 for each local call) I called him 11 times, and I'm not going to lie, probably left some pretty psycho messages on his voicemail. I never heard back from him. Nevertheless, I called Boyfriend #1, who in turn sent some friends of his downtown and we partied in the hotel room...couldn't let a $200+ suite go to waste all because some guy was a pussy, right?
By the way, this boyfriend emailed me THREE YEARS LATER to apologize for standing me up that night. He also mentioned that he was a recovering alcoholic, and that he had finally made it as a Firefighter. These days, he's a Sergeant in a nice neighborhood not far from where we both grew up and has a girlfriend. See, sometimes drama kings make it just fine.
Boyfriend #4: The Lazy One with the Nonchalant Attitude
This boyfriend also turned out to be a drug addict (see description of Boyfriend #2); however, he was in denial and told both me and everyone he met that he was a "recovering addict". He worked, but never hard, and always at mediocre jobs. Oddly enough, he was fired from at least three of these jobs (that I know of) during the five years that we were together. Did I mention that two of these times was allegedly for stealing, which he, of course, denied.
He was a nice guy, a push-over, and gave me all of the space in the world. He had no ambitions, no goals, and was completely content to go through life just, well, going through life. Obsessed with computers and online games, I'm pretty sure any stress he ever felt was taken out on obscure, secret missions or frolicking in the woods shooting at God knows what with strangers in Zimbabwe (is that still a Country?), Canada, and a few cities over.
After losing his last job, I pretty much forced him into applying at a major Drugstore chain where I had previously worked as a Shift Manager. The old Assistant Manager of the store I had worked at hired him, and the lazy guy I had known for more than four years became obsessed with his new "leadership" role and began to look at his job as a career.
During our relationship, he had also gone from athletically fit (not slim by any means) to more than just a teddy bear. I won't lie, I gained some weight too. When it became too much, I purchased a treadmill and gym memberships for us both. He became exercise-crazed and lost, I'd say, probably at least 40 pounds. Eventually our relationship fizzled, yet he stayed with me because he was too lazy to break up with me. I swear, I heard the biggest sigh of relief come out of his mouth when I told him I couldn't be with him anymore. He is now the Store Manager of a location for that major Drugstore chain in the same city where Boyfriend #3 is a firefighter. He also has a new girlfriend of 7 or 8 months and remains mum on the question I often ask to mess with him-is she the one?
Boyfriend #5: The Current Boyfriend
Oh wait, he might be reading this. Ha, you didn't really think I'd write about him yet, did you? This blog, after all, is about my exes. I'll update you though once I've nurtured this "fixer-upper" into doing his thing and sent him off to the next girl to marry and live his happily-after-ever and blah, blah, blah.
Me? I'm S4L...Single for Life. But hey, at least I'm doing my good deeds for mankind, and making some girls out there very happy and content with what used to be just an "eh" kind of guy. After all, this is obviously God's calling to me in life, and I would never let Him down.
Happy, not lonely,
Freeway Fairington
It's almost ironic now, but my seventeen year old self once made a collage of words and images, and on this particular collage (which still hangs prominently in my old bedroom at my parent's house) there is a comic strip. Orange in background, it presents an awkward party scene: girl standing and looking desperate to get away; geeky guy standing in front of her, drink in hand and pocket protector on his short-sleeved 1950s-style dress shirt saying, "Are you interested in a fixer-upper?". I kid you not, this is the epitomy of my love life. Sigh.
Here are some examples:
Boyfriend #1: The Immature Bastard
This boyfriend wasn't really actually ever my "official" boyfriend, but we dated off and on for a few years. He was a habitual liar, charming, but a liar nonetheless, who was semi-obsessed with his ex-girlfriend. Bad things that he did to me included stealing my car from my place of employment and rear-ending his ex's car, used me for countless rides to I don't even know where, and repeatedly lied about any and everything. I suspect he probably stole from me a couple of times, and then there was that time I caught him reading my journal. (Ha! The prick got what he deserved). Worse things that I did to him to teach him a lesson: left him on the side of a major interstate when he wouldn't stop speaking to me disrespectfully, created a list with my best friend of reasons why I couldn't have sex with him (this made the "I have to wash my hair excuse" pale in comparison to any excuses we made up), had some of my "boys" teach him a lesson about lying and stealing, and called the cops to report that he had driven through an apartment community gate along with a full-description of his soon to be disabled non-registered and non-licensed car. Needless to say, we eventually parted ways and fell out of touch...amicably, I'll add. He went on to finish Real Estate school (before the market got too bad), moved to another state, and now has a beautiful daughter. He was the boyfriend who just needed some maturing under his belt.
Boyfriend #2: The Inexperienced Drug-Addict
My inexperienced drug-addict boyfriend had a good heart and was a free spirit looking for a fun time. He also apparently did way too much Acid in high-school. I never was quite certain if he was just that dumb and goofy, or if he was the way he was because of all of the drugs he had ingested over the years. I was only the second girl to date him (Boyfriend #1 made sure to tell me this and that everyone thought he was gay because of this-they were "friends") so he was very inexperienced in the, ahem, love department...almost comically so. We didn't date long because he was always looking for a party and a place to get high. Somehow he managed to stay out of jail and keep a job while we were together. He was the one who called me randomly every few months to ask to see me or to just keep in touch, and, of course, look for a party. He too now has a child, and just recently got married.
Boyfriend #3: The Drama-King/Alcoholic
This boyfriend went to a small college within commuting distance of one of the top party schools in the United States. He was older than me, cocky as hell, and as far as I could see, someone who posed a challenge that needed to be put in his place. I should have known that when he showed up for our first date with a soda in his hand that something was up. See, he was 21 and I was only 19. I think we went bowling and he ended up going home. I never saw him sober again after that. Once, I found him lying in between the couch and the coffee table in my living room babbling some nonsense about how I needed to go to the party school because where I was attending college didn't matter. My roommate came out of her bedroom to see what the problem was and immediately started laughing. He talked constantly during his drunken rambles of wanting to be a Firefighter, but alcohol was far more important it seemed, because all he did was just that-talk. And drink.
On what was to be our one-year anniversary, I foolishly booked a room at a nice hotel in the downtown area near where we lived. I had my mom go with me to the nearest liquor store to purchase Moet (big in all the rap songs of that time) and a bottle of Martini and Rossi Asti (still my favorite drink). I got dressed up nice, fixed my hair (that's BIG for me!) and drove downtown. The jerk never showed or returned my calls. According to my phone bill when I checked out of the room (yes, it was $1 for each local call) I called him 11 times, and I'm not going to lie, probably left some pretty psycho messages on his voicemail. I never heard back from him. Nevertheless, I called Boyfriend #1, who in turn sent some friends of his downtown and we partied in the hotel room...couldn't let a $200+ suite go to waste all because some guy was a pussy, right?
By the way, this boyfriend emailed me THREE YEARS LATER to apologize for standing me up that night. He also mentioned that he was a recovering alcoholic, and that he had finally made it as a Firefighter. These days, he's a Sergeant in a nice neighborhood not far from where we both grew up and has a girlfriend. See, sometimes drama kings make it just fine.
Boyfriend #4: The Lazy One with the Nonchalant Attitude
This boyfriend also turned out to be a drug addict (see description of Boyfriend #2); however, he was in denial and told both me and everyone he met that he was a "recovering addict". He worked, but never hard, and always at mediocre jobs. Oddly enough, he was fired from at least three of these jobs (that I know of) during the five years that we were together. Did I mention that two of these times was allegedly for stealing, which he, of course, denied.
He was a nice guy, a push-over, and gave me all of the space in the world. He had no ambitions, no goals, and was completely content to go through life just, well, going through life. Obsessed with computers and online games, I'm pretty sure any stress he ever felt was taken out on obscure, secret missions or frolicking in the woods shooting at God knows what with strangers in Zimbabwe (is that still a Country?), Canada, and a few cities over.
After losing his last job, I pretty much forced him into applying at a major Drugstore chain where I had previously worked as a Shift Manager. The old Assistant Manager of the store I had worked at hired him, and the lazy guy I had known for more than four years became obsessed with his new "leadership" role and began to look at his job as a career.
During our relationship, he had also gone from athletically fit (not slim by any means) to more than just a teddy bear. I won't lie, I gained some weight too. When it became too much, I purchased a treadmill and gym memberships for us both. He became exercise-crazed and lost, I'd say, probably at least 40 pounds. Eventually our relationship fizzled, yet he stayed with me because he was too lazy to break up with me. I swear, I heard the biggest sigh of relief come out of his mouth when I told him I couldn't be with him anymore. He is now the Store Manager of a location for that major Drugstore chain in the same city where Boyfriend #3 is a firefighter. He also has a new girlfriend of 7 or 8 months and remains mum on the question I often ask to mess with him-is she the one?
Boyfriend #5: The Current Boyfriend
Oh wait, he might be reading this. Ha, you didn't really think I'd write about him yet, did you? This blog, after all, is about my exes. I'll update you though once I've nurtured this "fixer-upper" into doing his thing and sent him off to the next girl to marry and live his happily-after-ever and blah, blah, blah.
Me? I'm S4L...Single for Life. But hey, at least I'm doing my good deeds for mankind, and making some girls out there very happy and content with what used to be just an "eh" kind of guy. After all, this is obviously God's calling to me in life, and I would never let Him down.
Happy, not lonely,
Freeway Fairington
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)