Dreams of Broadway, Salad Bugs & Yes, We're Special

Ever since I was little, I dreamt big. Not just any big, I mean, playing-dodgeball-on-the-moon-big... or jumping-out-of-an-airplane-with-my-name-painted-on-it-and-landing-in-a-football-field-of-chocolate-marshmallows big. I couldn't help it. Still can't. And I've tried to dissect the whys. It's not that I had some abnormally sugar-coated childhood. I had a worn, purple, oversized coat from Goodwill. My knees and arms were consistently covered in yellowing bruises from careless tree climbing incidents and rollerblade mishaps. In the spirit of the holidays and my fear of heights, I was forced to awkwardly balance atop cement railings and plastic chairs on my father's porch, taping strand after strand of Christmas lights and cling-on Santa faces. It was freezing, my pink fingers exposed and numbing. (Try to successfully use heavy duty packing tape with mittens.) But these were minor life experiences we all had, I'm sure.

From an early age, my goofy charm may have won over a few grown ups, but never my peers. Collectively, none of these people ever made life seem unrealistic. I had a first grade teacher who threatened bad behavior with orange lipstick kisses to the forehead; though, she never actually kissed anyone that I knew of. Instead, she sent me to the principal's office over 20 times that year. And my fourth grade teacher made me cry a lot. She had loud clicky shoes and black eyes that stung like hornets. Once she screamed and embarrassed me in front of the class—all on account of my horrible cursive that didn't live up to her strict slanting standards. If from these instances I hadn't yet lacked faith in the people around me, in fifth grade, I opened my boxed salad and dug in to find that I was munching on tiny bugs that looked like the small, bulbous ends of broccoli. And the lunch people, who had to order me another meal, made me sit alone in the lunchroom at one of those picnic-table-style jobs and wait for a PB & J to arrive from the high school. I sat there like a lonely heifer-in-training, crying into her empty trough. Believe me, I was willing to go without lunch, but they wouldn't let me go back to class. Imagine that as an explanation as to why you missed your Science quiz. The kids really enjoyed that one, too.

I experienced more than my share of life at an early age. These examples are just the beginning. No need to get any deeper. But as you can see, at no time did anyone lead me to believe I was destined for greatness. I had a quirky rebelliousness, a horrible collection of colored stirrup pants, and a limited treasury of common sense that disguised any intelligence I may have owned. I knew how to draw cartoon people and mimic others' handwriting. Not only was I last on the list for any type of fame or recognition, my sweet vulnerable center (much like a Gushers fruit snack) made me a rosy, round target for my peers. Slap on an easy-to-rhyme, silly-sounding last name, a gimpy foot, and freckles, and there I was—in all my plump glory. The only moment of celebrated distinction came in third grade when I was asked to announce the buses as they came in at the end of the day. It was truly an honor! And since I was always in the principal's office anyway, it was more than convenient. But then, about halfway through the year, some sly girl with a bowl cut traded me the privilege for a collection of pretty colored rocks. To this day, I regret it, but that's another story. Even after all this (the fat jokes and the long lectures about "personal responsibility" in the principal's office), I had hopes of being great. I still do, though I'm not so clouded by childish optimism. Or am I?

The saddest of all the dreams—living in New York City and performing on Broadway. To this day, the thought of it makes me want to cry or laugh... laugh and cry and vomit all over my men's flannel from Target. At some point in my curious childhood, I acquired a thick booklet for some prestigious New York college. I took it places with me, glancing through it with a furrowed brow. I slicked down its glossy pages carefully, trying to keep it just as pristine as I had imagined New York to be. Even at 11, I was somewhat proactive at planning my future. I had circled my major about 1900 times with the tips of my fingers: Theater Arts. I blame it on wanting to be loved, loved from everyone and all the time. It wasn't that my parents didn't love me, or my friends, or my brother and sister cats, but even their support (and snuggly purrs) weren't enough. It was more than being loved. I wanted to be needed and there was no where in my tiny world that gave me that.

For this need of neediness, I was good at finding sad people, people who were down on their lives and just wanted a friend (even if it was just the chubby, awkward neighbor girl). Sure, their adult troubles were sometimes over my head, but I listened anyway. I tried to understand. I held their hands and ran to get them tissues. It made me feel alive to be there for them, to be better than that girl everyone knew at school. It was my secret. But the best thing I could do, the only thing I was really good at (in my kid way) was making them laugh. Not only did it make them forget the stupid stuff they had to deal with, but it made me forget all the stupid stuff I faced: the horrible names the boys called me in the halls, the way that thrift store purple coat with the toggle buttons made me smell like someone else, the way my body never moved the way the other girls' did. I meant something in my own world. And that was all that mattered then.

Maybe we grow up, we stop needing the things we used to need to fill us up. I remember telling my mom that I didn't understand why everyone didn't want to be famous. The idea of a life otherwise seemed... well, boring. I didn't want to live that, a life that meant only as much as those few you could touch in your small radius. I wanted to touch everyone! While that notion still creeps up on me from time to time (Tasha not understanding my strange disinterest in plays and musicals), I know that life is about more than touching everyone... it's about touching those few in a way that really counts. The larger your radius gets, the more superficial the meaning. See?

It doesn't mean I will stop dreaming or ever give up that secret need (now, not-so-secret). On no day will I ever wake up and not want it; though, now I realize it's more likely that I hit the Powerball three times in a week or invent a way to inject coffee directly into my veins. (Both of these are welcomed happenings.) That's the funny thing about humans... we all want to be special. We believe we are. We all want to be recognized for greatness, somehow. And as depressing as it might sound, only some of us can be on such a large scale. Luck, talent, whatever it is that gets them there. The others, we do our thing. A good day is a compliment from a stranger, sharing a cup of coffee with an old friend, or—capturing a picture of your coworkers pigging out at lunch, Photoshopping them to wear tiny hats, and then taping it on the wall in your office for all to see. The little stuff.

I'm writing this now, sitting alone in the Greensburg Starbucks on a Sunday night thinking about the next step, what it will be to fill me up. There are so many things that I want to be, want to accomplish. Sometimes I don't know where to start. But when it all gets too much, I think about what it took to get here and I know I'll be all right. I mean, I made it this far. I still suck at cursive and fear ladders. But I'm touching... even if it's just the amazing people of my little dot on the map. I appreciate them, more than I ever could from any other angle.

Cheers!

Layers just mean warm.

Here comes the cold weather. Already I have coworkers and friends asking how many layers I'm wearing. Yea, I'm pretty much the coldest person I know, keeping my work office at like 92˚F. It's fine. I may or may not have blood. Anyhow, with the colder weather comes the "homeless" jokes.

Sometimes it isn't a joke, I guess. Once, in Omaha, Nebraska, a woman coming out of the ice cream shop with her little boy thought I was homeless. She took one look at me with my backpack and clothing, eating ice cream on the curb, and grabbed her boy—pulling him far from me.

I'm not homeless, though. I'm very cozy in my home right this second. Believe it or not, I just finished up my Ovaltine and I think I might go to bed. Early.

Am I the only one that bundles up and pays no mind to bulky limbs and mismatched color schemes? Listen, kids. It's Southwestern Pennsylvania. When the wind comes, it feels like it's ripping through your garments ready to knock you on your ass.

Happy week of Halloween, peoples. I will be updating with photos. <3

mpt

PS: The Ovaltine in the orange container is the only good Ovaltine. Peep that.

PSS: If you're looking for a good poem read: How a Poem Happens

New Kensington: The Song that Doesn't End

There are many things in fall that I don't take for granted: pumpkin-flavored lattes; crunchy colored leaves; pumpkin-face carving; marathons of bloody, mini-stroke-inducing movies... the good things in life, of course.

But what I always forget about my favorite season is the lack of sunlight, the roadsides teeming with odorous rotting animals, that forever-grey that seems to paint the sky from horizon to horizon. And we all could really use some sunshine about now in Southwestern, PA.

My hometown of New Kensington has been polluted with all kinds of shootings and tragedies, as of late. And though it's nothing new, it seems to only be getting worse. I can't help but wonder why and re-read the news articles and flashback to those days when I was just a wee one—playing on the porch with my Legos and my Barbies, ducking from every passing car behind the white bricks. Yes, even at eight-years-old I was worried about "drive-bys." I'm not even sure I knew what they were exactly.

While I'm sure paranoia was part of my personality from the beginning (along with guilt, insecurity, and an ever-present sense of doom), I am curious if others have these memories. One instance, in particular: I recall someone had been shot in their bathroom—stray bullet—and my little brains sketched some strange scene. I could see him vividly: the victim, a lumberjack-looking man dressed in flannel, reading a Shop 'N Save flyer on the toilet until suddenly BAM—in mid-bowel-movement—gets knocked from his seat, ass up in the air.

I realize now that—not only did I not witness this (why do I often, in memory, have a hard time deciphering between dreams and reality?), but for months, I had extraordinary difficulties going to the bathroom, myself. I tried to hurry. I tried to avoid it. I had to talk myself into it. I kept my eyes fixed to the once-white tiles in the tub, as if they were about to splinter and swallow me up like some ceramic black hole. But I wasn't sure if this was where the bullet would come from, of course. It just seemed logical—eight-year-old logic. Realistically, a bullet could have come from anywhere. Bathroom or not. These weren't conditions for a pleasant potty experience.

While other kids prayed, I did different things before bed to occupy myself. I used to play this game. I called it "Three Wishes." And every night, I gave myself three wishes. But it wasn't just three general wishes. Depending on what I wanted or worried about that day, I wished in categories. Sometimes I wished for three things I could change about my physical appearance, or three toys I wished would magically drop from the sky (for some reason, these always came with an unlimited amount of batteries, if required. I was an over-prepared wisher, I suppose.) But on those nights where word of violence came creeping in across my step-mother's scanner in short, static-ed bursts, I wished for no pain. The bottom line: bullets hurt. Even in my youth, I knew this.

"Ways I wish to not die..." I held up three tiny fingers under my worn comforter—dingy white with primary-colored, construction workers and utility vehicles, a dated bargain from Big Lots. "Being shot" was always my first answer, followed by "fire," and then, "car wreck."

These are the type of memories I don't readily think about, but remember well. When people ask where I'm from, I first shoot them a look—chin down, eyes up, head cocked to one side—"New Ken." And then, when they cock their heads in the opposite direction of mine, and we're sort of looking a lot like confused puppies, I correct myself: "New Kensington." Then, they get it.

The responses are unanimous, predictable. I've heard everything from—"Did you wear a bulletproof vest?" to "Oh, wow. You can't tell." And my first reaction is always to defend New Ken, tell them I'm not afraid, and "you know what, it's not that bad." I don't always remember my childhood in the context of those fears. There will always be a soft place in me for my hometown. And since my dad has passed away, New Ken is a different kind of violence for me. Most of my good memories are tied up in things that are no longer there—the drive-in, Sunday breakfasts at the 5th Avenue Deli, shopping at J.C. Penny's for my school clothes, and, of course, my dad.

I admit, maybe I was a little more nervous than kids my age, dancing to the latest Boys II Men song on B94, anticipating Friday Night Skate at Melwood or watching Lamb Chop's Play-Along, but I know I can't be the only one. Old or young. No matter where in the town you lived. How many of us overheard disgruntled grandparents chatting amongst themselves about how New Ken "used to be booming." Apparently it was a brimming with department stores, shady gambling, and paid parking lots. By age 10, we were all trained to say that "New Ken went downhill once the mob left"—as if we knew first-hand, as if we personally watched the caravan of swarthy Italians pack their black Cadillacs and wave goodbye, cigars hanging from their tight-lipped farewells.

But the story is in what is left. And as the violence continues, years after leaving, I can't help but feel sad for the families still there—those raising their own families, growing up, scared to stay, scared to leave. I hope that I'm speaking to a small percent, that most feel safe and untouched by the violence. More than that, I hope for a change: a reconstruction that consists of more than demolishing buildings and planting grass seed. Though it's a start, change comes from within. I've heard people complain and spout off about the local cops and officials, but people need to start taking responsibility for their own actions and inactions. It's a mindset. It's everyone and everything. Is it possible to remain positive and embrace what you do have? I think so. Is it easy? No.

I might seem cloudy-eyed, but I'm not stupid. The darkness that hangs thick over New Ken is something we all experience, but on a smaller, more personal scale. A grief, a sadness, that pervading feeling of never having enough, never being full... but amplified with poverty, desperation, addiction. Can there be good there? Maybe we don't look in the right places. When, even in our own lives, do we fully appreciate what we have? If we don't stop this now, it'll continue—generation to generation. If nothing else, can't those who decide to pick up the gun, instead decide to put it down, give their kids a chance?

Yes, I'm gone now. I don't live in New Ken anymore. I went off to school, found a job, did my thing, and so maybe it isn't my place to say anything. But sometimes I still play the wish game when I can't sleep. I close my eyes... hold out three fingers. And lately I've been wishing for peace. I've been wishing for the madness to stop... for all those kids who nervously flinch at passing cars, find themselves not sleeping, but thinking about grown-up things like bullets and strange men getting shot on the john when they're trying to sleep.

Infected Zombie Blood

It's that time again... preparing for the epic event of the year—the (holy shit!) 6th? Annual Halloween Party. Really creative title, right? Anyhow, Teesh and I are set to go all out, as far as decor goes. Today, we were perusing the Halloween section at Target, getting all giddy (high-pitched squeals, repetitive LOOK AT THIS's, touching/picking up/fondling everything). If you were to walk by while grabbing the obligatory bag of Reese's Cups on special, you might think we were an unfortunate pair of four-year-olds stuck in hoodies.

As an aside, Target and I have issues. It seems I can't walk in there without dropping at least double the amount of money I should be spending. That big red bull's-eye? Yeah, it's the same color of my car. The car they're going to repossess after I spend all of my money at Target.

We decided this year, instead of spending a ridiculous amount of cash-money on corny decorations of cartoon ghosts with cut-out eyes and snaggle-toothed witches, we would make our own. Kids, I realize this is September, but one only has so much time to put together the bangin'-est party. Figure in a reasonable amount of time for make-your-own-decor, a suitable sleazy punch recipe, and about nine-to-ten days working on a costume that no one in the world has EVER thought of... and you've got yourself a solid month of planning (or more). Besides, these old, shady bottles we just bought at Goodwill aren't going to fill themselves with questionable nasties.

Which leads me to the point... any ideas for ghoulish decor? Teesh and I decided to start with about $10 worth of glass bottles, in which will contain various liquids and maybe even PEELED GRAPES... I mean, eyes. I think this is classy. Set them up all over the house. Hope nobody tries to drink them. You know... nothing says Halloween like an accidental Windex ingestion!

Well, it's getting late. I just know I'm going to have nightmares after the brainstorm session I had coming up with "labels" for these bottles. Eye of Goat Radish. Scuzzum of Mink Husk. Infected Zombie Blood.

Sweet dreams.

Cherry Pop-Tarts

Here I am again. Back on my porch, streetlight beamed and trying to sort out my insomnia. Sleeplessness isn't as easy as playing cards. I'm trying to decide how much sleep I need to do what, what going to the gym at 5 a.m. actually means to me, and if I'm going to gain 3 pounds from the package of Cherry Pop-Tarts I devoured this afternoon. Heavy stuff for a Thursday night, right?

But on the subject of Cherry Pop-Tarts. They were there. Glistening in their bright blue wrapper, taunting me from the other side of the glass. Before I could know what I was doing, I slipped in the crinkled dollar bill and hit F5. Is it sad that I can recall the actual code? See, at our place of work, Cherry Pop-Tarts are a rarity. Of course, there are always the obligatory Brown Sugar Whatevers and the Strawberry Frosted, but Cherry is like the diamond of the group; alas, it was the last one. Behind it, more Strawberry. This is important, because in that moment, I felt like they were made for me, that there was a reason I even stepped up to the vending machine that I'm pretty good at avoiding.

Now, there is a professor I had once, a poet, and she did a remarkable job portraying the Cherry Pop-Tart—a sort of vulnerability. And overly-romanticized (by me) or not, the treat itself is worthy of an awesome poem.

As it stands, there is more to worry about than Pop-Tarts at this hour, but I'm fixated and that's what I do (instead of analyze Real Issues.)

My first day of teaching is coming up here on Tuesday. I've spent a few hours babbling to myself in the car on various short drives, so I feel like I'm ready for the big leagues. Hahaha... really. I've thought about holding a phone to my ear, but felt that would really taint the whole experience.

Happy Friday (early) and Weekend. I get to see my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew tomorrow. So I'm on top of the world, you know? (:

xx
mpt

Just bee.

Well, if you haven't heard... I'll be Professor Chicken by the end of this month. Ok. I'm teaching one class at the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg. (From where I graduated about... ugh... 4 years ago.) Wow. Anyhow, it has me working some serious tail feathers, along with my arty art projects and cooking and sweating (the humidity this way has been obnoxious) and and and still trying to keep up any sort of motivation to do normal things like grocery shop, clean Mr. Winston's cage, or sleep. Summer-induced insomnia. Nice.

But fall is coming! Are you pumped? It's my favorite, even if it is cliche. These last few days, the air just feels like fall, you know? To me, it is so much more fresh than spring. Spring is mud and melted snow and rain and mud. And while Tash finds it depressing, the upcoming leaf-falling season gives me this strange feeling in my tummy—like butterflies with dumbbells tied to their wings. And THEN this whole montage of flashbacks (haunted houses, sipping cider, carving pumpkins, etc.) plays in my head with the reflective yet raspy backdrop of "It's a Wonderful World." Ha. It's not that serious, maybe, but it is that corny.

I took this little snap when Tash and I went to visit Amy in Lancaster (Lan-cus-ter: she'll beat you if you don't say it right). We were hiking somewhere crazy (up RT 81, I believe)... and the whole forest floor was covered like this. It was like a dream...

Speaking of dream. That's one huge pumpkin. Note the text on the little white one (and squash). Totally didn't see that.

What's your favorite season? I find Winter-lovers interesting. I like Winter... for like a second. 

Ahhh... I better crash.

mpt

Semicolon update! And a picture of an underwater scary thing.

I totally found a site (Oatmeal.com) that definitely does the semicolon thang in a funnier way. Too bad I didn't see this before... ha. I would've just posted it. Clicky!

Enjoy!

Semicolon Happy: A Life Lesson

One of my favorite marks is the semicolon. Don't get me wrong; he's a pretentious little twit sometimes. Honestly, I'm not, you know, a world-class grammarian or anything, but one of my favorite things in life EVER, is the misuse of this little snot. Not only because I wouldn't have a job if it weren't for grammatical/spelling errors, BUT because the semicolon is one of those extras. You need not use one. There is never a time when a period is completely unacceptable. Semicolon is stylish, flashy... he is like the fur lining on your hoodie, you know?

If you've ever wondered what in the #¢*! to do with a semicolon... I've got a few that I think are most important (or, at least, most common.)

*******

One.
The easiest: use a semicolon in place of a period between two separate sentences without the conjunction. (Conjunction is like "and," "but," and "because.") These two "sentences," can be considered independent clauses, meaning they could stand alone, you know, with their subject and verb; however, the semicolon here signifies a closer connection between them—closer than a period!

Stop by McDonald's and get me a Rolo McFlurry; I'll give you dollars when you get here.

I stopped going to class after the first two weeks; it put me right to sleep. 
 
Two.
While it's not like GUN-TO-THE-FOOT* important, it is preferable to use semicolons before introductory words/phrases that introduce complete sentences. Some of these words are "however," "therefore," "besides," and "for example." (Remember the comma afterward!)


Lisa is notorious for sleeping around; therefore, I was hesitant to sit, raw-bottom, on her toilet.

I can't wait to get into a good college; however, I'm dreading the loan repayment.

Three.
Now, this one is a wee bit tricky, but sort of necessary for clarity. Use a semicolon between items in a list, when the items contain commas. They call this type of list (with internal punctuation) a "complex series." Haha.

Leah dated a lot of guys in the medical field, such as: Scott, the physical therapist; John, the doctor-in-training; Chad, the male nurse; and Bill, the pharmacist.

*******

Done with the banter! But hey, you get the idea. Common, everyday language is more prone to rule one, but trust me there are more rules! If nothing else, just don't use them. Eff convention, throw in a period and be done with it.

Enough rules. Not so swiftly, I'm trying to focus my attention on something else other than that stupid Casey Anthony case; though, it appears to be everywhere right now. Stuff like that rots my brain out, makes me so sad.

HEY. What punctuation/grammar issue do you come across most? This might help me. I need some idea of what people are struggling with most. Share your funny/sad/angry stories about grammar, spelling, or punctuation. I'd love to hear them, honest.

*GUN-TO-THE-FOOT was just an un-clever way for me to say "gun-to-the-head" without such messy imagery!
** I hate footnotes!

Flavor Drop Update.

Some news. First of all, remember those Capella Flavor Drops that I blogged about a few weeks ago? Utter shit. While two of the five flavors I purchased, at least, have some flavor, the others are total duds. Unless you plan on putting like 10x the amount of drops recommended; in which case, maybe you should just poor acid on your tongue, too. The chemical-y taste is a bit too much to bear.

And to top it off, I wrote a pretty nice email to the chaps, just stating what I had found to be true—in a nice way. I didn't request or demand FREE MERCHZZZ! or my money back. Just wanted to give them my piece. Forkers didn't even respond. LAME! And before I get off the subject of these horrible little caustic, flavorless drops...

Word of advice: if you get a drop on your finger... DO NOT LICK IT.

Quick replay:

Note: zombie walk, baggy eyes, and the only positive thing about this picture (the coffee!)

And then I realize my order of tasty, sugar-free drops came in the day before! I couldn't wait! I possibly didn't sleep at night thinking about them. Kidding.

One of my favorite flavors OF ALL TIME... coconut! (: Perfect summery coffee flavor, no?

Not sure why I thought it was ok to lap up the rogue drop with my tongue, but um... it smelled good, right?

Just don't do it. It was a combination of rubbing alcohol and tequila... and I'm pretty sure I received chemical burns on my tongue. The end.

A former colleague of mine (oh my god does that sound trite), Jason, runs an online lit mag called decomP. Kudos to him for that, first of all. But yea, he used one of my paintings ("earthbound") as the monthly cover thang. How cool? Thanks for the pimp action, Jason. (:

Time to get ready for some Independence-style partying. Hope everyone has a great holiday weekend!

xx
mpt

ps: If you didn't click the "Forkers" link, you may want to do that.
ps2: For you all, I refrained from CASEY ANTHONY bs. The trial has suddenly taken over my life.

Babies use soap, right?

Being the lucky girl that I am, I have some pretty amazing friends. I wanted to pimp this girl for her unique and awesome brain. Well, I mean, a lot of people can make soap, but this girl makes it from base ingredients, meaning LYE! This shit scares me to be honest, as I can't even use a kitchen knife half of the time. I digress. You should check out her soap. Not only does she make the soap, but it's packaged in her handmade paper and lovely typewriter lettering. I'll be making some with her soon, so pictures are to come.

In the meantime, check her out. She is up for new ideas, too. Give her a shout. cyfisch@gmail.com —or, if you're too shy, hit me up.

So listen. My next stop is Dream Land. I'm going to make it brief, because how boring are dreams to other people? I know, BUTTTT... I dreamt I had a baby. I had a baby, was happy about it, and gave it away. Yep. I was a surrogate mother. It kind of messed me up all day. I'm a gusher. Add that to my list of hobbies... painting, writing, knitting, singing...surrogate mother. I kind of wonder what y'all think. Could you do it? Pros. Cons. What?

Just curious, as usual. >^..^<

New product, camping trip and obscene dream

Let me start this entry by talking about dreams. I know. I know. It can be one of the most moronic things to blog about... the unicorn ate my corn on the cob and shit out a dog. Yea. Sometimes there's just no following a dream like that—no matter how amusing it may be to the dreamer.

I'm an avid dreamer. A lucid dreamer. I've flown. I've been licked by a pack of stray puppies. It's all happened. But last night, like so many other nights, I dreamt I got fired. Not only did I get fired, but the reasoning? I had been taking meth mixed with aspirin? What!? I don't even know what that means... the most interesting thing about a dream (that we can all share, I think) is that feeling the whole next day. You know how a dream just really shakes you? I was so disheartened by being fired that it had me reeeally upset. It was more of the trying-to-prove-I-wasn't-a-drug-addict. Blah.

Anyhow, it was quite a nice weekend camping with my friend Larissa and her family. Good times. I ate enough to feed a small country and so I'm back on the wagon starting tomorrow. I bought about $75 worth of healthy groceries. Even a $10 bag of almonds. God. That's an investment. I'm just really losing focus. I'm ready now.

I did want to talk about these flavorings I found online: Capella Flavors. Apparently it's flavoring for many things (including coffee) without calories or sugar. Just flavor. So you drop a few drops into your iced coffee, your recipes, your tea, whatevs. I'm liking this idea. Dunkin Donuts has a similar method with their flavors—you add your own sugar, or for me, Splenda (let's call it Splendor. It cracks me up.)

So tonight, I ordered 5 bottles of the stuff. It was buy 3 and get 2 free. Pretty good deal. Especially with the $3 shipping. I ordered tonight around 7PM and it has already shipped! (It's 11PM). I'm ready to let you guys know how this stuff works out. I'm namely buying it for my iced coffee. But they have fruity flavors that can be used for water and so on. Check out the site, at least. There's a lot of info on there. I purchased: Coconut, Cinnamon Danish Swirl, Vanilla Cupcake, Chocolate Raspberry and Toasted Almond. If these are good, not only will it save me a ton of money on flavored creamers, but I won't have to put that thick creamer in my iced coffees!

Happy Memorial Day! Hope you, too, got drunk off of boxed wine... er.... something similarly delicious!
<3

The Show Me State... Day 1

So far, so cool. The trek here wasn't bad at all. Luckily, Mr. Casey K was all up on that driving for a bit. After 5 hours of straight driving, my brain wasn't entertaining itself any longer with Meghan's Top Tens (which consisted of me evaluating everything in my life—sorting and rating—in lists of 5 or 10) and my eyes were getting sleepy! We pulled over at a Flying J (makes me think of some sort of winged illegals)... anyhow, we crashed for like an hour and a half in the parking lot. We woke to some interesting sights when we ventured inside. "I need a shower and a pack of cigarettes." Yep. Don't we all.

Essentially, we rode 70 the whole way here, which was easy. And I really did overestimate my need for gummies and licorice, because I still have some for the way back! But I'll tell you what... as much as I love the Starbucks, I sincerely warn you to never ever EVER have one of their energy drinks.

I'm sure that the concoction of the great Sheetz meatball sub I had, alongside one of THEIR coffee drinks wasn't the best predecessor to this Starbucks beverage, but still. The taste was horrendous. Like Casey suggested, it's like coffee and an energy drink had a baby... "and named it NASTY." (That was my add-on there.) It had a smooth delivery, a chemically jarring flavor and an aftertaste reminiscent of something I'd like to refer to as "Robot Coffee." I'm not talking Terminator here. Terminator had more realistic appeal than this beverage.

Besides my drink rant, I had a great day. We arrived with sun and blue skies, with a gorgeous skyline and a crazy feeling that I was driving into Pittsburgh. Strange how, thus far, St. Louis has been comforting—home-like. More on that later. All you need to know is I've encountered an awesome brewery, an affinity for riding bikes on a flat surface and a love-hate relationship with a cat named Prince. He's like the cat version of me—complete with the attention span of a 6th-grader, 2 extreme functions (HYPER-ON or off) and an indecisive swagger. Sloan tells me if Taylor Swift and Adam Lambert had a baby... a cat baby, this would be Prince. You decide:

Oh, so there's that. I plan on showering now. It's been awhile since that's happened. Ha... it's what happens when you visit hippies.

Take care, all! <3

Finally over! That deserves a royal high-five!

Ah, so I sit here on my hand-me-down couch in silence, going over the day and thinking about how it's nearly midnight and I could sleep... quite possibly for the next 12 years. I know I'm only 25, but this getting old thing is... well, getting old. I blame it on the weather, the the lack of consistency, the sloppy thick mucus that has taken my lungs hostage. One minute a nude, bathing gentleman in a tub is flying by our windows (a horrible Oz reference) and we're ducking swirly tornados, the next I'm stripping down to my undershirt in the sun during my hour lunch break. In one day I saw snow, hail, rain and very warm sunny skies. Tonight, the temp is dropping back down to 35˚F. Tomorrow? 70˚F. Anyhow, enough whining about weather. I should be grateful to live in a place with four seasons, right? It makes the anticipation of each rather exciting. Except winter. Winter feels like death.

Oh wait. I have more whining. This royal wedding business. It's over, right? Does this mean I can go back to my empty, soulless life--living without heart-shaped, jelly-filled donuts from Dunkin, flamboyant grocery-store cakes with the faces of the the royal couple, and the sparse (but still too many) British flags flying about in the neighborhood? I just don't get it. It's America, people. Don't we have something better to do at 4 in the morning? Sleep, maybe?

Wow. I'm a total crankpot this evening. To be fair, all I request is a Snickers and a Midol. (Maybs one of those Reester Bunnies!)

Please, tell me you've heard of the Reester Bunny. Happy weekend!
xx

PCLD: Let's Talk Post-College Blues

All right. This will be my first semi-serious post, and for this reason, I will attempt to step up my game on the little doodles. There's nothing a pregnant cat in a penguin t-shirt cuddling a 10-day-old puppy can't soften. Right? Or this...

Anyway, to keep this rolling in the right direction, and away from cracker-nibbling rodents, let's move on to my late night, earth-shattering epiphany. (Please note: my epiphanies are more frequent than the time it takes for new episodes of House to show up on hulu.com. Still.)

I've recently come to the conclusion that pretty much every young person I've come in contact with these days--in particular, my crew--has been negatively affected by college. It's not college at all. It's the after college that seems to destroy people. And if an undergrad happened to go to grad school, this mental disorder was only prolonged until after that degree. I thought it might be more helpful to set this disorder up in a way that might be accessed as easily as any other WebMD definition. 

PCLD: Post-Traumatic Life Disorder

Much like a premature version of a "Midlife Crisis," PCLD can be classified as a mood disorder that interferes with everyday life and occurs following the anticipated graduation from any post-secondary education. PCLD is characterized by one or any of the following categories:

Avoidance

This category is normally defined by those "fresh" out of college or post-secondary schooling. After a number of years confined to a rigorous routine of responsibility, one might find a false sense of solace in abstaining from anything academic or related to his or her field of study.

"I'm just going to take a break"

• Feelings of detachment
• Emotional "numbness"
• Little to no concern for future
• Lethargy
• Weight gain
• Lack of interest in field of study, or former interests
• Minimum wage job(s)
• Heavy drinking, followed by a need to "just dance"
• Sense of stagnancy without the will to change
• Caffeine dependence
• Facebook

Negative Self-Realization

The definition of this category relies heavily on the lingering insecurities of adolescence. It is largely found in those who pursue degrees in the arts or similar creative studies. As creators, it is common for those with PCLD to experience symptoms directly and/or indirectly related to their creations, such as feelings of inadequacy, worthlessness, and a need to change goals in light of negative self-discoveries; PCLD commonly takes the shape of feelings and actions associated with early adolescence. This category is also referred to as Regressive Post-Traumatic Life Disorder.

"I don't know what I want."

• Hopelessness and self-blame
• Search for an undefined dream or goal
• Lack of confidence
• Sense of making the "wrong choices"
• Indecisive
• Nostalgic
• Interfering, and often unwarranted, fear of failure
• Depression
• Nick at Nite

Defensive Frustration

The last category of PCLD is the most actualized. Hardly a resolution, these symptoms often surface in the latter stages of PCLD, typically in response to previous categories' symptoms. If the pendulum were, for instance, swinging downward in the other categories, this is the most erratic, upward swing of PCLD, characterized by a hyperactive ego, which follows a low, often depressive, state.

"The world is my goddamn oyster."

• Sense of freedom from rules and life limitations
• Exaggerated responses and reactions
• A tendency to be overly defensive
• Concentration difficulties
• Inflated sense of self
• Irritability or outbursts of anger
• Hyperawareness, or paranoia
• Impulsive and often masochistic life decisions
• Heavy drinking
• Insomnia
• Sports

Without being funny, I'd like to explain myself. I'm pretty sure the time frame for the once-typical "coming of age" has been prolonged. Unfortunately for most, the decision is already made. You're going to college right after high school. Your other option is to go against your parents, society, your peers... If you don't go, you are looked down upon. C'mon. We've all eyed up the "Votech" kids as if they were of below-average intelligence. I have since changed my opinion.

Once you find a school, you must then choose what you want to do for the rest of your life. Key words here: rest of your life. It's like a death sentence. From the moment you were hatched, the hopes were instilled: you can be anything you want, even president! Big dreams create high hopes, which are then introduced to the "real world" of low odds and let down. Next step: PCLD. Am I right?

I'm not here to knock education or academics. I'm not even sure what I'm knocking. I just know that the majority of my peers are struggling to find jobs, struggling to know what it is they really want, and feel as though they are the only ones out there experiencing it. NO, please know that you are not. There are a gazillion kids with degrees and no hope for a future.

I guess my questions are simply (ha!):

1. Will the majority of us ever know what we want OR be happy with what we have?
2. Is the previous question linked to the infinite realm of possibilities?
3. Are we just a bunch of spoiled babies?
4. Are we "spoiled babies" because of the false hopes that were instilled in us? Who is to blame?
5. Is there a job that is completely fulfilling, while remaining so for the longevity of working life?
6. When will the education system STOP making studies about money and more about skills/intelligence?
7. When does PCLD end? Is there a cure?
8. Will Dr. House and Cuddy ever get back together?

Well?

"It's a twistah. It's a twistah."

Just a quick note to let everyone know that the house still stands, and I am alive. Who knew? The tornadoes caused some damage and some funny videos have surfaced, but I think everyone is ok.

Since I was a kid I had dreams of tornadoes sucking me up and spitting me out into the sky. Not today, I guess. The sky turned an eerie shade of green and Tasha grabbed Mr. Winston and put him in the basement, while I finished cooking my ham. Ha!


Edit: peep this photo, kids!

<3! xx

My History with Music & Trouble

I'd normally begin this history with a longer summary of my youth... something about arguing with my mom in the car about her Adult Contemporary radio selection. (Though, there's really something about Phil Collins and Don Henley that really does it for me these days. HA!)  Or, taking it way back, let's talk about how I accidentally taped over my cassettes, one Disney soundtrack at a time, with this kiddie recorder I had. In the middle of "Hakuna Matata," there were, at least eleven, abrupt intermissions in the music, followed by a giggle or a squeal or a less original, "HELLLOOOOOO. 1 2 3." Apparently that's all the higher I could count at 5.

Proof of the wee chicken with her first exposure to stardom.

Anyhow, let's bring it up to speed a bit. I have to admit this weekend seemed a little goofy from the beginning. I had no "legit" plans for Friday night. See, this is already trouble. There is something about ending the work-week with a bang. No matter how sleepy or lazy I feel by Friday at 5 PM, I'm ready for action. (Usually making time to nap first.)

After a feast of Southern-Style BBQ with friends (which fiasco I'm purposefully omitting from this tale because of my seemingly unhealthy obsession with food and over-eating), we gathered at my house to decide the next course of action. We had no ideas other than "not drinking," which already makes me sound lame, I know.

Three guy friends and I stood on the front porch in a nerd-like panic. OMG?! IT'S FRIDAY NIGHT! DO WE HAAAVE TO GO OUT? DO YOU WANNA GO OUT? I MEAN, WHERE WOULD WE GO?... I GUESS I COULD. DO YOU WANT TO, THOUGH? After a long series of go-no-where questioning, spotted with vacant moments of expressive stares, and can-you-just-read-my-mind eyes, we finally caved. Coffee? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

There is nothing wrong with coffee: nothing wrong with the morning cup at work, the "Hey, let's go get a cup of coffee" between old friends, and of course, the occasional caffeine mania when most every other young adult in this city is already, at the very least, tipsy and eyeing up some unhot bartender. It was 10 PM, and though, the tall/small/tiny/littlest was an option, I opted for the largest. We all did. "Go big or go home," they say. I'm pretty sure that phrase had nothing to do with coffee, and more likely something a bit harder like Miller Lite.

For the record, I'm a huge fan of iced coffee. Especially since the weather has been giving us a little more sun and a little less snow. [Us Pennsylvanians are all feeling eager to smack ourselves into the next season (today, in fact!), SPRING.]

Yep. Like I said before, there is absolutely nothing wrong with a good ol' caffeine rush among friends on your porch, on a Friday night. Until someone gets the bright idea to sing, that is. And still...

Now this is where I'm going to reverse for a moment and remind everyone (and myself) of my first high-school-aged offense. I had gotten into the routine of flailing down the hall in a silly way—specifically, doing my best opera-style "Hallelujah." It was fun, loud, and best of all... obnoxious as all get out. What else is a freshman to do but live up to the stereotype? I obviously had no choice. My operatics had skidded their way under the radar over and over. In fact, when teachers did start catching on to my screechy proclamations, they laughed. I won.

Until one day, a certain math teacher decided to call me out on my inane (and honestly, awful) singing, when I barged into his classroom, the trail-end of my melody snailing with me. I was told to stop, mostly in a polite way. Still, I didn't enjoy being told this in front of my peers, nor the made-up rule at all. And like most ridiculous crap teenagers had to endure, I protested. "Why? But I'm just singing? Is it really against the rules to sing in between classes? Do you not want us to be happy, Mr. So&So?" He ignored me. Of course. I was hitting too close to the truth, I thought, and decided I would do it over again the next day and see just exactly what this fool was after.  I hallelujah-ed the following day, ripping through the busy halls in song. And, boy, did I think I was brilliant with this one; I would silence myself at the exact moment I crossed the threshold into his classroom, a blatant sass-ass. Technically, I wasn't singing in his classroom, so I wasn't under his jurisdiction, right? I was immediately sent to the principal's office, where after a good ten minutes of amazement at my "crime," the principal sent me off with an obligatory detention slip. My second detention EVER was for writing: "My mom is drunk and naked on the street corner," in Spanish. I was definitely the queen of getting absurd-sounding detentions.

Anyway, back to the much older, modern day criminals: we giggled and gabbed on my front porch on Friday night, until it was someone's bright idea to sing. I don't recall how it began. Perhaps someone just started and we all pitched in. Either way, our harmonies moaned and chirped over the dead-nothingness of my suburban neighborhood. The rows of houses were our acoustics, the feral rabbits our audience. We were quite pleased with ourselves, too: inserting the right "boo-ba-boos," just the right tone or key, even the way we could mimic the sounds and backdrop beats of the original jams. And once we cleared the "Star-Spangled Banner," "Amazing Grace," and "Mr. Sandman," we realized we had no other song knowledge in common. So...

Bearded One and I started with "O' Holy Night," and, as a group, we ran the gamut up until "White Christmas," boosted by the bass of Hat Boy's low vocals. We were out there for about an hour, I'm sure,  laughing at ourselves, singing, trying to remember the words to obscure second verses. Until the cops came.

Apparently, someone ratted on us. I felt an immediate sense of disbelief. REALLY? Really? really? Just as ridiculous as my 9th-grade offense, only Mr. Cop Man was nicer. He told us someone called to say we were having a "really big party" and he could see this wasn't true. I felt like a loser. A 25-year-old chick, surrounded by her guy friends, with nothing better to do on a Friday night than overdose on iced coffee in her pajamas and sing Christmas carols, mid-March, on her porch. It's fine. It is really fine.

Life Lesson #1875: Next time the cops get called on you, actually be engaged in something worthwhile: like intravenous drug usage, or the selling of Black-Market handbags. <3

A Sestina for a Wednesday

This poem really gets me, man. I had to share. Anyone out there still reading poetry? Writing it? I'm a sucker. Still. In fact, I have a reading tonight that I'm sort of nervous about. Why do I still shake like a cold puppy up there? Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Domestic Sestina

As usual, falling asleep she pictured a hill and upon the hill a house.
 She could not anticipate too much, had to let them form in her mind,
 and then in her mind walk up the hill, and then open the door.
 Sometimes the hill was in Japan, sometimes Latin America,
 often Ireland or France. She could tell the country by the coins
 in her pocket, though sometimes there were elaborate gardens

 suggesting a national character, a preponderance of gardens
 leading up to or extending behind the house,
 sometimes a fountain beneath which greenish tile glinted with coins
 scattered across the bottom, fees for the mind's
 dreaming. Always she forgot she had fallen asleep in America,
 far from the village roads lined with bombs, the opening doors

 of ruin. She believed inside the heart there was a door
 unlocked by beauty. Here were the white gravel gardens
 raked daily by monks, here were the ponds of America
 stocked with koi that gleam and leap, here was the tea house
 shaded by banana and palm, by evergreen and the mind
 of winter and plum blossoms falling like silent coins

 to carpet a new geography. Maybe like blossoms the coins
 grew on trees, maybe the silvers and golds were the only doors
 in the world? She had to believe the ideas her mind
 delivered at night, when she was asleep in ancestral gardens
 scented by lilac and pear, when she was the dark house
 herself of ghosts long ago called to America.

 Asleep, she never wondered why anyone came to America.
 Of course, the streets were paved with gold, and buckets of coins
 were rainbow luck, and every family had its house
 with curtains and swings and a slot in the door
 through which letters and checks were deposited. Even the gardens
 were ripe for those who did not mind

 too much being given. But it was not only her dreaming mind
 that wished to live in the kind of house
 she'd always imagined; it was the houses and gardens
 themselves insisting they be desired. True, there were coins
 jingling in her pockets, enough, but nowhere would she find a door
 to such desires, never would the stones leading up to the house

 through fragrant gardens transplant her as routinely as her mind
 to her mind's houses, even the musty, foursquare American
 houses, common as coins, keys still hung by the door. 

  Deirdre O'Connor

Oh, and funny look at my Photoshop skills. Perfect segue.

There's nothing prettier than a nibbled-on, British Twinkie & Stonehenge. Am I right?

Signing off, kids.

Day 2: Desperation (already)

I'm sad to report that I've been struggling with the no-sweets deal. In fact, I probably should've clarified the No Goodies list before I began... because since Holy Day, I've had animal crackers, fruit snacks, and Twizzlers. I know. I mean, these are all things that could be deemed sweets, but I guess I had more of a no-cake-cookies-or-ice-cream thing in mind. I've been getting grief from those around me. That's the thing with abstinence (from anything). It's not just pressure from yourself you deal with, daily, but the pressure of those around you, prodding and poking like they've never tried to give up anything before. This is why I fail over and over again with the smoking crap, among other silly habits (hair-twirling, saying "psyche" after things--I stopped, I swear...etc).

I'm not good with pressure. I'd like to say I'm one of those cats who holds her own under a deadline or habit-breaking, but to the contrary, I crumble like a boneless otter. Bah. To compensate for my lack of "sweets," I've begun gorging on my meals, eating seconds (even thirds). From past posts, we realize this is nothing new. I get in phases where I need to eat until I want to puke. Plus, I think knowing that I can't do something is making me want to do it. Classic, right? 

Due to this whole thing, I've been aimlessly making laps through the kitchen with x-ray vision, imagining all the goodies my shelves contain, as if they were going to pop out and jump down my throat. I wish. It's fine, though. I mean, the only time I really crave chocolate is... who am I kidding? I crave it all the time. Bad, Chicken.

So yesterday, which was Day 2, I thought I had found the loophole. I pretty much thought I was brilliant. Chocolate Mini Wheats.

Teesh, probably feeling cheated by her own chocolate-depravation, caught me "left-handed"--as my coworker's kid called it one day. Obviously, I made the rules, so I decided right then and there that I was allowed chocolate cereal. The first bites felt a little like heaven. Pathetic.

I refused to stop then. I devoured biscuit after biscuit as she scolded me. I even poured myself a glass of milk. In my defense, it is cereal. And though Teesh wasn't having it, I just kept screaming the same desperate line over and over:

I guess that's the end of my tale. Sadly, Teesh and I were at odds for the rest of the night and we ended up tackling each other, then boxing. Boxing. It's a new hobby in our house. Sort of like Fight Club. That'll be saved for the next entry.

So long, kids. <3

40 days... and nights, I guess.

In lieu of my friends' journeys into Lent season (crazy Catholics), I've decided to test my willpower. I mean, Jesus and I aren't necessary homeboys, but it's sort of for me, you know? When I was younger, I was more interested in greasy, salty foods (see below), but these days, I'm way into sweets. In fact, I'd choose ice cream over the lives of most people. Ha. Not really, but you get the idea.

Anyhow, today begins my journey into non-sweet-land. It's like the opposite of Candyland. Sounds like hell to me, but why not? It's not like I couldn't stand to lose a few pounds, help my diet a bit. I just wonder how close I'll get to the edge, especially when those mencies come.

Wish me luck, kiddies! And to those of you riding the Lent train, what did you give up? Oh, and good luck!

Eat Like Good Friends Do

Believe it or not, there are better things in life than friends who love you endlessly, support you when you need them most and would give the shirt off of their back for you. (Has anyone ever had to apply that theory?)

Friends that eat. A lot. With you.

Now, since I was a young one, I loved food. I might be downplaying this a bit. I didn't just love food. I had a relationship with food. I married food. My dad was old-school Italian to the max, feeding anyone who stopped by. Every kid on the block had their run-ins with dad. And if you were thin, look out. This was a sign that you were malnourished, and he might just ask you to eat (over and over again), until you finally caved. This was his tactic.

And I was a mischievous, though naive, tomboy with an affinity for Legos, Barbies (whaaa?) and Happy Meals. Imagine a parent (or parental unit) who would fulfill your every food whim--no matter the time of day, the cost or the sincere inconvenience. I had a double cheeseburger at 11 AM, a pizza-parlor style Italian hoagie at 3 PM and then perhaps a heaping plate of spaghetti for dinner. It didn't stop there; depending on the evening, I might have had French-fried potatoes around 10 PM, or an MTO from Sheetz with a side of Combos. Listen, I'm pretty sure my dad made up the Taco Bell term "fourth meal." Often, there were fifths, sixths. And if you weren't hungry, he would ask you until you were, until you were pretty sure you were, at least.

You hungry? How about a Chalupa? Tacos?


Want a Twister? Get you an MTO, if you want?


I'll get you 20. As long as you eat it.


Hoagie? Sub? Whatever the hell those things are. Want one?


Oooh, I could go for an entire dozen of donuts. Whaddya say?


Boston Cream? Chocolate Frosted? Glaaazed?


C'mon, Animal. You haven't eaten for an hour.

Between then and now, I have worked hard at losing weight, overcoming about 70-75 lbs. total. It wasn't easy. I choose salads and grilled chicken. I stay away from mayo and ranch dressing. Making healthy choices is the EASY part. The hard part is the portions, right? Just because I can eat vegetables and prepare my own overly-vinegary salad dressing doesn't mean I don't have the FFK appetite. FFK = Former Fat Kid. Though I can keep it in-check most often, I allow myself a day a week to treat myself. This is when having hungry, good-eatin' friends make all the difference.

I tend to attract (even find attractive) those who can stand up to my appetite. There is nothing worse than going out with someone who picks at their meals, uses take-home boxes and/or claims they are full after what just may be a ONE PERSON PORTION. I spit at that person. For example, my string bean roommate Adam, who considers eating two plates of food at the Panda Buffet "a lot." (Must I also verify that these "plates of food" consist of 2-3 items, hardly generous.) I remember being unsure of his presence in my life just from this fact.

So yesterday I decide it is time for my weekly pork-out. I put on a pair of loose jeans, a brightly-colored sports bra and refused to brush my hair. This was my moment. Because my friends and I (we'll call them Teesh & Queen) were already in the Pittsburgh area--the only "adults" without a child visiting the Carnegie Science Center, we decided to eat there. Since none of us had been to Fat Heads on the South Side, it sounded like a nice choice. 4:21 PM.

By the time we skidded through lanes of confused traffic, soggy afternoon drunks in green t-shirts and found an actual parking spot. (In Pittsburgh, we like to "make up" parking spots.), we arrived at our destination, tummies rumbling and ready. And then the heart-drop. How long of a wait? 45 minutes, the attractive, hipster at the counter tells us. FORTY-FIVE MINUTES?! When you're ravished, 45 minutes might as well be tomorrow. But I turned to see my friends optimistic, shrugging at this seemingly impossible wait.

"Eh, anywhere we go will be crowded, you know?" Right. They were right, logical even. But can we just try, I wanted to ask. There is no logic in hunger. Instead of whining my concern aloud, I puffed up my chest and gave the host my name. 45 minutes. I could occupy my brain for 45 minutes. 4:50 PM.

Time passes at an incredibly slow pace. I doodle. I draw pictures of unicorns and cats and gerbils in plastic balls. It's fine. Everything is going to be ok, because I know after each doodle, I'm just 1 majestic unicorn away from food. Right.

I'm going to skip to the part to where we actually get a seat, because the dull time in between could be painful to read. But it was nearly an hour (or more) before we actually got waited on, about 6:15 PM. The waitress, bubbly and smiling, brought us our waters. Had she been psychic and could comprehend our subsequent pain, she may not have asked the question...

Can I get you ladies an appetizer?

At this point, we were drooling. Our stomachs had caved in on themselves like raisins. And though we were not starving in a literal sense, the anticipation induced by the unordinary wait time gave us a near-death sensation. So when we heard appetizer, a word, which, in fact, means "before meal," the question hit us as FOOD RIGHT NOW? And we accepted the offer. Obviously.

While it wasn't the waitress's fault, I mean, we could've picked something smaller like their Arrogant Onion Rings or something, but we chose Pedro's Nachos. To put it lightly, this mound of nachos could've fed four people as a meal. In silence, other than a few satisfied groans we shared, we devoured it. In fact, we would've won an award. The waitress in a moment of shock exclaimed she had never seen a plate of their nachos disappear so quickly.

At this moment, it would also be safe to note that we had no idea what was ahead of us. I believe our stomachs were most likely already full, but we didn't believe it. Though this should have clued us in, those nachos were just an appetizer. We had burgers and fish sandwiches coming. French fries. Yes. And we had no idea how big these things would be. The prices were reasonable, cheap, in fact. I could imagine anything extraordinary. Boy, was I wrong.

Our reactions were as follows: excited, stunned, worried. But we continued to plow on, as though we hadn't just ingested nearly 2 lbs. of nachos a piece. It was ok, because it was delicious. It was sooooo goooooood.


Needless to say, the car ride home was a long one. 45 minutes, in fact. And besides the grunts and moans of pain and discomfort, there was a strange intermission of laughter, like we were in some unfortunate food delirium. It was disbelief coupled with pain coupled with disbelief at our pain. Laughter wasn't the end-all-be-all. All ups have their downs, and suddenly we were pressed with painful, uncontrollable gas, (which then, of course,  resulted in more laughter and more discomfort.) It was a deadly loop of downhill spiraling that ended with the three of us passed out on the couch.