Narration

Something that I've noticed about myself recently is that when I am bored, or feel awkward in social situations, I tend to narrate in my head.  Only in my head though.  If I narrated vocally... I would look insane.  Probably.  But I digress.  A few weeks ago I heard a group of people talking about the movie Paranorman, which I had seen recently.  Having liked the movie quite a bit, I decided to chime in with a little conversational tidbit.  

Romanticization

I have a habit that I'm trying to kick.  It isn't dangerous to my health or anything of the sort, but it is a source of near constant letdown.  I am ALWAYS instantly romanticizing things.  Whenever I start something new, my imagination kicks into overdrive.  I constantly imagine being the best at whatever I do, surpassing everyone's expectations.  Turns out those rose tinted fantasies are rarely met.

For example, I recently was newly employed at an old folks home for the elderly Jewish community.  I was essentially a waitress, making sure everyone was taken care of in the dining room every night.  Early on in my job, I felt like a queen of waitresses.  I picked up everything quickly, and was able to do my job relatively well, relatively fast.

As the weeks went on, the old folk began to take their emotional toll.  Comments I shrugged off before slowly started to annoy me.  On one occasion I was told that I should eat all the dessert myself, because I was too thin and wouldn't survive the coming winter... I'll show her.  On another, I was berated for having hair that was 'TOO BLOND.  YOU MUST HAVE DYED".  All natural, baby.  After a few more days, reality came and mugged me in a dark alley.  I blinked... and poof!  Everything dissolved around me.

Maybe my ID badge wasn't as beautiful as I had originally though.

Poof.

And I certainly didn't look like a beauty queen in my uniform.

Poof. 

It's pretty hard to pull off a hairnet, doesn't matter how good looking you are.

I suddenly realized that if they aren't directly related to me, I don't like old people that much.  In all honesty, they make me really sad.  Now that I'm back at school, I don't have to worry about it for a while.  Even so, I still don't like being crushed by reality like that.

This isn't a recent phenomena.  In elementary I realized I could plant things and make them grow.  So, I planted seeds from the tree outside my house every-frigging-where.  I figured I was a regular Johnny Appleseed.  Within a week I had forgotten about it, and went quickly back to playing Link to the Past on my Gameboy.  Those seeds never did grow.  I imagine there is an Indian somewhere weeping over that fact, like I cried the first time I saw the end of Forrest Gump.

I'll break from that little tangent and get back to my main point.

This romanticizing happens even more frequently when I have a crush.  Since May I have had a wicked crush on this dude who works at a store I frequent.  And while most of my visits were run of the mill interactions, my imagination took the wheel and on occasion ended up being incredibly distracting.

I would go in, all nonchalant like, and say something to the effect of:

And then I'd probably ask Game Guy if the store got a new DLC that I should buy, and he'd totally reply:

We'd then make plans for later in the evening, I assume, and pick up the conversation about here...

Stumbling back into reality from Alli Land can be a bitch.

However.

I had mentioned first and foremost here that romanticizing generally leads to disappointment over time.  However... that doesn't seem to be the case with Game Guy.  More on that later. :)

Dickey's

I was driving by a Hooters the other day on my way to somewhere classier than a Hooters, and I stopped for a moment to process the establishment.  Not literally stopped, seeing as that would have caused an accident (I'm super responsible like that).

From what I can gather, Hooters has everything a man could possibly want on a night out.  Food, beer, and breasts.

That's all fine and good.  Ladies have to pay for their college tuition/breast implants somehow.  I'm not going to be an obnoxious feminist and demand that they burn their bras and go on strike.  

Because that will just leave them with no severance pay and saggy boobs.  Out of those two consequences, I'm not sure which one is worse.

But I digress!  Why is it that dudes can have a restaurant like Hooters, and ladies can't have a little bit of that action?  If the whole animation degree doesn't pan out, I'm going to open a restaurant that is dickey themed that caters toward ladies.  For those of you who do not know, this is a dickey.  I can only assume they are for when you want to look warmer than you actually are.  

And the uniform will be as follows:

I'm pretty sure it will take off IMMEDIATELY.  We're talking chain restaurant, here.  Why can't a lady enjoy the finer things in life while observing some fine men, after all?  I've never had the pleasure of being at Hooters for my birthday, however, I'm sure the waitresses bring out cake and maybe lick some of the icing off their fingers seductively in front of you.  Dickey's will go above and beyond that for the birthday girl.  But, you should probably ask in advance what they'll do if it's your first time there.  Just in case you're not a lady.

Bon appétit. 

On Horses

My ancestors were generally located in northern Europe, somewhere in Germany probably, maybe some Switzerland and Austria on the side.  That's pretty cool and all, and it certainly explains my love of chocolate and bank accounts.  It also explains my perpetually pale complexion and mottled skin tone.  At least the gross looking skin is mainly located on my hands and arms, and not somewhere inconvenient like my nose.  I barely notice it anymore, but on occasion someone in my vicinity will make a comment like this and it will remind me that I'm not a Disney Princess after all.

Because princesses don't have nasty hands like these.

The reason I don't really like swimming pools in the summer is because my skin is basically transparent.  I'm like one of those cheap fish you find at pet stores with the clear skin.  You know, the ones that you can see their organs?  Yup, that's me.  

I'd be happy to live in New England forever and ever.  It's the perfect climate for me, but I'd probably stay inside all the time and die of a vitamin D deficiency.  When it turns to spring though, I feel obligated to go outside a little bit because it is so nice.  After about a half hour in the sun, my skin has taken on the hue of an irate Maine lobster.  

I don't like going further south than Maryland, but there is ONE thing that can tempt me enough to go to Florida this summer.  That thing is DISNEY WORLD.  (See?  I foreshadowed with the princesses.  I knew where I was going with that).  The last time I was in Disney World was the spring of my junior year of high school.  Fatty's family invited us down to stay at their condo for the week, and I can honestly say it was one of the most glorious weeks of my LIFE.  I aspire to work for Disney someday as an animator, and as you can imagine, the place is kind of like my personal brand of cocaine. 

I couldn't get enough!!!  There was so much to do, with the rides, shows, princesses, parades, mouse shaped ice cream, and PIN TRADING?  What more could a girl possibly ask for in a vacation?

  

Well... there is one thing.

Fatty's dad, Dr Dave, invited me to go with them to this place called Arabian Nights for dinner and a show.  I wasn't entirely sure what this show entailed, but I wasn't about to turn down quality Orlando entertainment.  

The day of the show Fatty told me that Dr Dave had been on hold for over an hour ordering tickets last night via phone, and that to compensate him for his time (as well as avoid losing four customers), all of our tickets were upgraded to VIP status.  Though I was still in the dark as to what the show was about, VIP status is nothing to sneeze at.  

Later on that evening, Fatty showed me the booklet for the show.

"The Greatest Show On Earth... ON HORSES!"

I'll let that sink in.

It was not just "The Greatest Show On Earth".

It was "The Greatest Show On Earth... ON HORSES!" 

 ON HORSES.

Can you even imagine the majesty of that statement?  

I really don't think you are even able.  On horses.

So, apparently if you are a VIP, you get to arrive early and meet the cast and crew.  Namely, horses and gypsies.  I'd like to say when we arrived we acted maturely, like a classy movie star VIP.  In all honesty, it was more like this.

Upon entry into the building, we were whisked away to the dirt arena, and I got to sit on the biggest horse I've EVER seen.  Seriously, this thing was enormous.  I mean, they set up STEPS so you can get on it's back.  Kind of a glorious moment of me.  On horses.

As Fatty and I regaled in the awesomeness of all the horses around, the gypsy folk were starting to warm up.  I mean, I don't know if they were fake gypsies or real gypsies.  But they were dressed like gypsies so I'm inclined to believe they were genuine.  They saddled and rode around the arena as we took our seats, and there was one extremely hot gypsy dude galloping around on a stallion.  

He was exquisite.  On horses.

We were seated right in the front row, and due to our VIP status, we were served dinner just as the show began.  Which was great for us, because after dinner ended the air got dustier than a high noon showdown.  The show was actually pretty good.  I haven't spent a lot of time around horses other than my two weeks of riding lessons when I was thirteen, so I'm not entirely sure if everything was impressive.  But I enjoyed myself.  That being said, I hope the person that wrote the script for the dialogue between horse tricks just half-assed it.  Because if that was their best effort... I weep for them.  

That's pretty much what happened.  

After that bit there was a whole band of gypsies in the ring doing tricks and riding horses through hoops and stuff.  Pretty legit.  Some audience member they called down as a volunteer was harnessed and flew through the air, and then ripped the seat of her pants.  So that was kind of hilarious.  She was so embarrassed.  Understandably so.  On horses.

The show ended with some big spectacle, but I can't remember what.  The princess was saved?  Probably.  She was kidnapped for a while, like princesses generally are.  We were soon on our way home, with happy hearts, full bellies, and a novelty plastic horse necklace that lit up in rainbow colors.  If it sounds tacky... that's because it was.

Oh yeah!  How could I forget?  

After the show, the cast and crew came up to the rails to get pictures with the VIP crowd.  I immediately made my way to Hot Guy On Horses (sounds like a Native American name).  I whipped out my camera for Fatty to use, and was dismayed to realize (a tad too late) that he was decidedly less hot when not cantering around and jumping through hoops rimmed with fire.  I will always be infatuated with the false image I had of him, even though I have a picture that proves he wasn't exactly what I expected.  

C'est la vie.  On horses.