I know Jacy and I look like tough cookies, but looks sure can be deceiving. We are actually the two goosiest girls in the entire world. Honestly, I never used to be a goose at all. I have always had a passion for scary movies and Halloween. And I always loved to scare the shit out of Jacy any chance I got. I was one of those evil sisters who would see her in her room all alone and I'd pop into her room with a, "Boo!" She'd always scream bloody murder and then punch me and I'd always gloat around for a while. I knew I got her good if she punched me.
But two years ago, my perspective on all things scary changed when I saw "The Strangers." A lot of my friends say that this movie didn't scare them. But it made me believe in the endless possibilities of my murder. For instance, the house where the scary stuff happened was in the country. Seriously, why did these filmmakers find it okay to film in the middle of a perfectly content and underpopulated country? Did Michael Myers kill people in the country? Candy Man? Hell no. Oh, and then the freakiest part for me is when the killers freaking killed the killees at dawn. What murder is performed in THE MORNING?! No one wakes up and gets killed. No way. Murders always happen at about 1:00-2:00 a.m.
That summer I lived with two guy friends, so I was sure that I'd be okay once I got home to the safety of their big muscles (ha!). But they found that night to be a great night to not be home. So, I did what any sane and scared girl would do. I locked all the doors, closed all the blinds and slept with a baseball bat clutched in my hands.
Now, two years later, I'm still as scared as ever. For some reason, being home alone in the country never scared me growing up. Dad showed me where he kept his pistol and he showed me how to insert the cartridge and I was convinced I could shoot any intruder on site. But in the city I can't exactly carry my pistol around. Or maybe I can? I'm not sure. I'm in Texas. Do the rules really apply to Texans? I do know that they believe in that eye-for-an-eye awesomeness. But that really scares me because what if I kill my killer before he kills me? Then will I be sent to an electric chair?
Instead of having a pistol close at hand, I have nothing. I thought I had locks on my doors, but my roomie informed me that the gate to our backyard isn't ever locked. (Don't get any wise ideas to come rob me. A) I don't have anything worth robbing and B) You don't know where I live. So ha!) We live in a town with 39,000 people! I can see not locking doors in small-town, Nebraska, but with 39,000 people? Yeah, too many bad things can happen to people with unlocked doors in that big of a city. My roomie assures me everything is fine and that her dog will protect me. However, I've heard about the Urban Legend where the girl hears a "drip, drip" sound that sounds like a faucet in her bathroom and it was actually her dog's blood dripping into the bathtub. Then the killer comes out from behind the corner and kills her. I don't trust dogs any farther than I can throw them.
Although there have only been, like, three murders in my new town's history, I don't want to take chances and be the fourth. (Did I mention that two of those killings happened this past summer?) For some reason, I'm not scared of dying when my roommate's home. I think that she'll protect me. But the other night I was home alone and I was convinced it was my night to die. (This is the same night my friend, Maggie, sent me an email telling me about the dream she had where a sumo wrestler made his way into her bedroom. Evidently, it was a very lifelike dream, so she bolted out of bed and turned on the lights to check for sumo wrestlers. I didn't want any of that funny business going on in my bedroom.)
Since it was my night to get killed, I found it only fitting to have a nice supper. Shrimp it would be. After eating my shrimp, I caught up on my Showtime shows and put on my nicest PJs. After all, I needed to look semi-decent for when the hunky police officers found me. I also left my day's makeup on just in case. Just as I was settling into bed, I thought, "HEY, I can prevent my death. I'll show my killer! muahahaaa," so I went in search of a key to lock the back door. After nearly tearing the house apart, I came up with ziltch.
Nearly defeated, I just happened to glance down at my gym bag and see my lock and key for my gym locker. HOLYSHITAKERISOTTO! I could save my own life. So I took the padlock and found a way to lock up the latch on the backyard gate. The only way a killer was getting me is if he took an axe to the fence in the backyard. Which I hoped I would hear.
I went to the bathroom and washed the makeup off my face. Then, for safe measure, I pushed my other bed in front of my bedroom door to make sure I could hear my intruder before he tried to attack.
I'm seriously thinking about buying a pistol. Or maybe I'll settle for a lock on my bedroom door...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Insanity Is Inherited, We Get It From Our Kids
As most of you know, my sister and her hubby welcomed a bouncing baby boy to their repertoire last week. (I don't think that's the proper use of repertoire; however, I've been drinking wine since 6:30, so sue me.) His name is Bo Michael Grant Popsicle (Pospichal) and he was born right as summer turned to fall. I've seen pictures and he looks absolutely gorgeous. (Just like his big brother) I'm dying to meet him!
Welcoming a little one into the family makes me think of how INSANE my mom must have been around 1990. Jan had it bad in so many ways. Not only did she have a 2 year old and a 2 month old, but she also had a freaking 12 year old. Now that I think of it, my older sister must have had it bad, too. Twelve years old and two baby sisters? That is about the time that the school nurse has a "special talk" with sixth graders to learn about the birds and the bees and the sugar plum trees. My sister must have been mortified to know what my parents were up to! Contacting storks to drop of baby sisters at the front door? Serious embarrassment I'm sure.
Despite the certain embarrassment we caused Gina, my madre assures me that Jacy and I were angels growing up. We never cried, we never fussed. We just ate and slept. (Kind of what I do now...) The same cannot be said for Gina. Evidently she liked to raise hell. Remember that time you scaled a grain bin? Love you, Ginaaa! Don't kill me. Anyway, as much as mom assures me we were easy kids, I really don't believe her. We were sneaky snakes. Well, I was at least. I blame it on middle child syndrome. I also blame my tattoos and piercings on that disease. Though, I must say, I don't think Jacy was too much of an angel herself. Once she bit a chunk of skin out of our friend's back at daycare after he pissed her off. Oh and she tried to drown my friend, Mary, in our crick.... But back to me and my evilness...
I think for the first 14 years of my life, I convinced Jacy to do things that I never wanted to do. I was always to ashamed/scared to ask my parents for anything, so I'd speak through Jacy. Most of my scheming involved food. Hense how I got to be overweight. Me: "Hey, Jace, do you feel like chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream tonight? I just saw a commercial for it on TV and you looked like you could use some ice cream." Jacy: "Hey MOMMMM, Can you get us some ice cream?" Bingo, worked like a charm.
But I was evil in so many different ways. I remember getting spankings. Oh, and I remember the distinct taste of Lava soap as it scrubbed my taste buds. The Lava was used for my potty mouth. You know, like calling my dad an asshole after I stole a sucker from our local grocery store. He wanted me to give it back and I thought he needed to know he was being an asshole. I was five. I do want to let you know that I did not learn my sailor language from my parents. My best friend growing up had two older brothers that taught him every cuss word in the book. He, in turn, felt the need to use those four-letter-words while we were playing at recess.
I was quite demonic towards Jacy. I'm surprised she even talks to me now. Although she was a gawky little f*ck, she was still skinny and cute and I was 100 percent jealous. She was also terrific at fishing. On one particular fishing trip, she caught six catfish. COUNT THEM! SIX! I caught none. She bragged about it. I don't care for braggarts. So, I got her back a few years later after dad gave her a real nice fishing pole for her birthday. I slammed the rod in our front door as we headed out for a fishing trips. I tried to make it look like an accident. No one believed me. I remember trying to outrun my dad. Lesson: Never try to outrun your dad (unless, perhaps, he's in a wheelchair). You will never win that battle.
Oh, and then there was the time I got jealous that Dad was taking Jacy for a ride on his snowmobile before he took me on a ride. Mind you, he was going to take me for a ride AFTER Jacy went for a spin, but patience was never one of my virtues. So, I decided to run up behind Jacy and push her off the snowmobile as Dad was about to go. I was built like a linebacker, so I'm sure Jacy's thud on the ground hurt her like a mo' fo'. Not my smartest Jess moment. Being unsafe around snowmobiles really doesn't sit well with Papa Schwag. I made it as far as our back porch before I was real, real sorry.
All of this talk about how awful of a child I was makes me really want to go out and have some little rugrats of my own in, like, 10 to 15 years. Though I honestly can't wait to shove Lava down their helpless little throats. Child protective services is probably keeping an eye on me now...
Welcoming a little one into the family makes me think of how INSANE my mom must have been around 1990. Jan had it bad in so many ways. Not only did she have a 2 year old and a 2 month old, but she also had a freaking 12 year old. Now that I think of it, my older sister must have had it bad, too. Twelve years old and two baby sisters? That is about the time that the school nurse has a "special talk" with sixth graders to learn about the birds and the bees and the sugar plum trees. My sister must have been mortified to know what my parents were up to! Contacting storks to drop of baby sisters at the front door? Serious embarrassment I'm sure.
Despite the certain embarrassment we caused Gina, my madre assures me that Jacy and I were angels growing up. We never cried, we never fussed. We just ate and slept. (Kind of what I do now...) The same cannot be said for Gina. Evidently she liked to raise hell. Remember that time you scaled a grain bin? Love you, Ginaaa! Don't kill me. Anyway, as much as mom assures me we were easy kids, I really don't believe her. We were sneaky snakes. Well, I was at least. I blame it on middle child syndrome. I also blame my tattoos and piercings on that disease. Though, I must say, I don't think Jacy was too much of an angel herself. Once she bit a chunk of skin out of our friend's back at daycare after he pissed her off. Oh and she tried to drown my friend, Mary, in our crick.... But back to me and my evilness...
I think for the first 14 years of my life, I convinced Jacy to do things that I never wanted to do. I was always to ashamed/scared to ask my parents for anything, so I'd speak through Jacy. Most of my scheming involved food. Hense how I got to be overweight. Me: "Hey, Jace, do you feel like chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream tonight? I just saw a commercial for it on TV and you looked like you could use some ice cream." Jacy: "Hey MOMMMM, Can you get us some ice cream?" Bingo, worked like a charm.
But I was evil in so many different ways. I remember getting spankings. Oh, and I remember the distinct taste of Lava soap as it scrubbed my taste buds. The Lava was used for my potty mouth. You know, like calling my dad an asshole after I stole a sucker from our local grocery store. He wanted me to give it back and I thought he needed to know he was being an asshole. I was five. I do want to let you know that I did not learn my sailor language from my parents. My best friend growing up had two older brothers that taught him every cuss word in the book. He, in turn, felt the need to use those four-letter-words while we were playing at recess.
I was quite demonic towards Jacy. I'm surprised she even talks to me now. Although she was a gawky little f*ck, she was still skinny and cute and I was 100 percent jealous. She was also terrific at fishing. On one particular fishing trip, she caught six catfish. COUNT THEM! SIX! I caught none. She bragged about it. I don't care for braggarts. So, I got her back a few years later after dad gave her a real nice fishing pole for her birthday. I slammed the rod in our front door as we headed out for a fishing trips. I tried to make it look like an accident. No one believed me. I remember trying to outrun my dad. Lesson: Never try to outrun your dad (unless, perhaps, he's in a wheelchair). You will never win that battle.
Oh, and then there was the time I got jealous that Dad was taking Jacy for a ride on his snowmobile before he took me on a ride. Mind you, he was going to take me for a ride AFTER Jacy went for a spin, but patience was never one of my virtues. So, I decided to run up behind Jacy and push her off the snowmobile as Dad was about to go. I was built like a linebacker, so I'm sure Jacy's thud on the ground hurt her like a mo' fo'. Not my smartest Jess moment. Being unsafe around snowmobiles really doesn't sit well with Papa Schwag. I made it as far as our back porch before I was real, real sorry.
All of this talk about how awful of a child I was makes me really want to go out and have some little rugrats of my own in, like, 10 to 15 years. Though I honestly can't wait to shove Lava down their helpless little throats. Child protective services is probably keeping an eye on me now...
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Grumpy Old Woman
That's exactly what I am. I'm an old, old woman. Like Rose Dawson-at-the-end-of-Titanic-when-she's-throwing-the-diamond-into-the-ocean old. And for some reason I'm trapped inside some random 23-year-old's body.
No, I didn't come to this realization when I was plucking a gray stray out of my head. (Mostly because I've convinced myself that they're just sporadic blondes sprouting up instead of grays.) I came to this undeniable conclusion as I was sipping on straight black coffee at a diner this morning before I went into to work.
For some reason, this morning I had this grand idea to wake up before the rooster crows, primp, watch a little Saved By the Bell: The College Years!, and go to the local diner an hour before I needed to be at work. You know, just in case they'd be busy. Before leaving my house, I grabbed a John Grisham novel to read while I sat and waited for my food. You know, just in case some handsome young fellow found well-read women appealing.
(I'm convinced that's how me and my future husband will meet. He'll find me alone and longing for a stranger at some diner or coffee shop and say, "The novel you're reading definitely tells of your intellectual nature. I'm impressed by your ability to choose work by such an impressive author like Stephanie Meyer, who wrote four coming-of-age fiction novels and one brilliant novella. The Twilight Series is filled with such depth, such suspense! What did you think of the part where Bella's inner turmoil caused her to doubt her outward love and affection for Edward?" And then, after agreeing that Stephanie Meyer was the best author of all time and that we'd raise our kids protestant, he would end with, "Say, little lady, what are you doing for the rest of my life?") Let's just say my imagination has convinced me that I need to spend every other day in a meet-cute scenerio. Hense the coffee shops and diners early on Friday mornings.
Once I entered the diner, I was greeted with a "which of these things is not like the others" sort of look when I made may way into a seat at the bar between two 70-year-olds with chattering false teeth. The waitress took my order - eggs, toast, sausage - and I took to my book, carefully eyeballing every feller (geezer) who walked by. Oh and did I mention that I also ordered RYE toast? What 23-year-old orders rye? I bet half the girls my age don't even know that rye is an option.
Two bites into my decadent rye smothered in apple butter, I had an epiphany - kind of like seeing myself from the outside in. Like I was outside of the diner's retro windows, peering inside to see a hopeless girl alone at the bar. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge revisiting his ghosts of Christmas pasts. Who was this girl? And when did she turn 98?
Then I realized. Oh. My. Gosh. I have always been this way. An image of eight-year-old Jess scraping her mom's windshield before school every wintery morning flashed before my eyes. Ooo, and an image of Jess setting her alarm for 6 a.m. on her day off to make sure her sister was up for school/work/anything on time. Another of Jess, backpack slung on shoulders, tapping her foot impatiently as her mother and sister were two seconds late for departure for school. And one more of Jess arriving to her first day of work 45 minutes early, pressing the "HALP! LET ME IN" button before any of her coworkers had even started their morning commutes.
After my brief self-actualization, I shoved the rest of the bread into my mouth and made way for the cash register. I tipped a hearty amount - because I wanted to be perceived as young and wealthy. And because old people are way more persnickety about their money than young people.
At that moment, I decided to make a vow. May these grays - er, I mean blondes - no longer grow from my scalp. I am (a young) woman. Hear me ROAR. Look, I even stayed up until 1:07 a.m. on a Friday night. Watch out world, Jessica (or should I go by Jessi. That sounds youthful, right?) is BACK.
Oh jeez, I just referred to a Helen Reddy song and used the words "hearty" and "persnickety" in the past two paragraphs. I'm hopeless.
No, I didn't come to this realization when I was plucking a gray stray out of my head. (Mostly because I've convinced myself that they're just sporadic blondes sprouting up instead of grays.) I came to this undeniable conclusion as I was sipping on straight black coffee at a diner this morning before I went into to work.
For some reason, this morning I had this grand idea to wake up before the rooster crows, primp, watch a little Saved By the Bell: The College Years!, and go to the local diner an hour before I needed to be at work. You know, just in case they'd be busy. Before leaving my house, I grabbed a John Grisham novel to read while I sat and waited for my food. You know, just in case some handsome young fellow found well-read women appealing.
(I'm convinced that's how me and my future husband will meet. He'll find me alone and longing for a stranger at some diner or coffee shop and say, "The novel you're reading definitely tells of your intellectual nature. I'm impressed by your ability to choose work by such an impressive author like Stephanie Meyer, who wrote four coming-of-age fiction novels and one brilliant novella. The Twilight Series is filled with such depth, such suspense! What did you think of the part where Bella's inner turmoil caused her to doubt her outward love and affection for Edward?" And then, after agreeing that Stephanie Meyer was the best author of all time and that we'd raise our kids protestant, he would end with, "Say, little lady, what are you doing for the rest of my life?") Let's just say my imagination has convinced me that I need to spend every other day in a meet-cute scenerio. Hense the coffee shops and diners early on Friday mornings.
Once I entered the diner, I was greeted with a "which of these things is not like the others" sort of look when I made may way into a seat at the bar between two 70-year-olds with chattering false teeth. The waitress took my order - eggs, toast, sausage - and I took to my book, carefully eyeballing every feller (geezer) who walked by. Oh and did I mention that I also ordered RYE toast? What 23-year-old orders rye? I bet half the girls my age don't even know that rye is an option.
Two bites into my decadent rye smothered in apple butter, I had an epiphany - kind of like seeing myself from the outside in. Like I was outside of the diner's retro windows, peering inside to see a hopeless girl alone at the bar. I felt like Ebenezer Scrooge revisiting his ghosts of Christmas pasts. Who was this girl? And when did she turn 98?
Then I realized. Oh. My. Gosh. I have always been this way. An image of eight-year-old Jess scraping her mom's windshield before school every wintery morning flashed before my eyes. Ooo, and an image of Jess setting her alarm for 6 a.m. on her day off to make sure her sister was up for school/work/anything on time. Another of Jess, backpack slung on shoulders, tapping her foot impatiently as her mother and sister were two seconds late for departure for school. And one more of Jess arriving to her first day of work 45 minutes early, pressing the "HALP! LET ME IN" button before any of her coworkers had even started their morning commutes.
After my brief self-actualization, I shoved the rest of the bread into my mouth and made way for the cash register. I tipped a hearty amount - because I wanted to be perceived as young and wealthy. And because old people are way more persnickety about their money than young people.
At that moment, I decided to make a vow. May these grays - er, I mean blondes - no longer grow from my scalp. I am (a young) woman. Hear me ROAR. Look, I even stayed up until 1:07 a.m. on a Friday night. Watch out world, Jessica (or should I go by Jessi. That sounds youthful, right?) is BACK.
Oh jeez, I just referred to a Helen Reddy song and used the words "hearty" and "persnickety" in the past two paragraphs. I'm hopeless.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Women In Sports
Wow, check out this link...I discovered this AFTER I wrote the blog. http://deadspin.com/5638872/a-gallery-of-ines-sainz-galleries/gallery/
Yesterday morning, Jacy tweeted the following: "Anyone annoyed with the reporter who tattled on the Jets for catcalling to her? Thanks for making it harder for women to be taken seriously."
I had heard all about the incident on Mike and Mike in the morning, so I knew what she was talking about. But in case you don't know, here's briefing on the situation...
A female reporter (Ines Sainz) who works for some no-name TV station (well at least I've never heard of it) called TV Aztecha was all pissed off because she evidently went into the Jets locker room and players were catcalling her. I guess even the head coach whistled at her. So, she demanded an apology from the Jets or ELSE (or else what? I really don't know.)
Jacy and I had a mini-text message fight on who got to blog about this. Since I'm the one blogging, I guess I won. I felt like this topic hit a little more close to home for me since, well, I am a woman and I have worked in sports for five years. I show up to work on time, I work hard, I hardly ever take a day off and I'm not bad at my job. In fact, I'm pretty good at what I do. Here's the deal though, I work on the opposite side of sports than this Ines Sainz lady. Rather than being a sideline reporter, I do more of the writing/behind-the-scenes stuff. In fact, I'd probably jump for joy and write a blog about how a bunch of professional footballers were catcalling me and my thunder thighs!
Being more of a behind-the scenes kind of gal, I see a LOT of female reporters. I also get to see the shit they wear. Now I'm not trying to bring everyone down. I absolutely love and respect Erin Andrews. She's frickin' gorgeous and would typically be the type of girl I would hate, but she knows her sports. She's not pretending to be someone she's not. She also doesn't dress like a skank on the sidelines (and I can verify this because I got to see her at the Nebraska game last season and she was 100 percent covered up. It might have had something to do with it being -30 degrees out).
Here's my point: The women who do dress like dime store hookers are most likely to get catcalled. It's a fact. And it's not the men's fault. Hell, this Ines lady was in THEIR locker room! What was she even doing in there? There's no reason for that. If a man waltzed into a women's locker room, do you know how much shit would hit the fan?
If you're a typical women, you're probably thinking, "Wow, Jess, have you no self-respect? Don't you think women should be respected?" Sure I do. And that's why this lady demanding an apology from the Jets is irking me. Instead of laughing off the catcalls and whistles and holding her head high, she's drawing attention to herself and women in sports. You can't tell me Erin Andrews has never been whistled at. Hell, I'm pretty sure I whistled at her. Take it as a compliment!
Anyway, where I'm going with this is that some ladies ask for the attention. This Ines lady was certainly asking for it if A) she was in the locker room and B) evidently she was clad in very little clothing. For example, I saw a wannabe news reporter covering a football game at Nebraska who was donned in a FOOTBALL JERSEY and KNEE HIGH BOOTS. Now, I'm sorry, does that girl really think that she's being respectful of herself in a long football jersey? Does she really think she's being taken seriously as she's on the sidelines? No WAY! But same goes for the girls who wear "professional" clothing that is two sizes too tight or six inches too short. These women may be the smartest people in the world, but when they look like they're "asking for it," then they're not going to be taken seriously by anyone, let alone a bunch of half-naked football players in a locker room.
Women in sports deserve respect. I deserve respect for the work I do. It's a man's world in sports. How many professional sports are for women? Basketball? Volleyball? No major American sports are played by women. It's very, very tough for women to crack into sports media and sound legit. I hate to say it, but it's true. Women need to stick together and be SMART out there. Throw away your work-appropriate MINI SKIRT, PLEASE!
Anyway, I'm sorry for this rant. But I just want it to be known that not all women are on Ines's side. She needs to be respectful of herself before she can gain the respect of men in sports. Who knows? Maybe I'd be singing a different tune if I wore a size 2, but I'm doubtful.
Yesterday morning, Jacy tweeted the following: "Anyone annoyed with the reporter who tattled on the Jets for catcalling to her? Thanks for making it harder for women to be taken seriously."
I had heard all about the incident on Mike and Mike in the morning, so I knew what she was talking about. But in case you don't know, here's briefing on the situation...
A female reporter (Ines Sainz) who works for some no-name TV station (well at least I've never heard of it) called TV Aztecha was all pissed off because she evidently went into the Jets locker room and players were catcalling her. I guess even the head coach whistled at her. So, she demanded an apology from the Jets or ELSE (or else what? I really don't know.)
Jacy and I had a mini-text message fight on who got to blog about this. Since I'm the one blogging, I guess I won. I felt like this topic hit a little more close to home for me since, well, I am a woman and I have worked in sports for five years. I show up to work on time, I work hard, I hardly ever take a day off and I'm not bad at my job. In fact, I'm pretty good at what I do. Here's the deal though, I work on the opposite side of sports than this Ines Sainz lady. Rather than being a sideline reporter, I do more of the writing/behind-the-scenes stuff. In fact, I'd probably jump for joy and write a blog about how a bunch of professional footballers were catcalling me and my thunder thighs!
Being more of a behind-the scenes kind of gal, I see a LOT of female reporters. I also get to see the shit they wear. Now I'm not trying to bring everyone down. I absolutely love and respect Erin Andrews. She's frickin' gorgeous and would typically be the type of girl I would hate, but she knows her sports. She's not pretending to be someone she's not. She also doesn't dress like a skank on the sidelines (and I can verify this because I got to see her at the Nebraska game last season and she was 100 percent covered up. It might have had something to do with it being -30 degrees out).
Here's my point: The women who do dress like dime store hookers are most likely to get catcalled. It's a fact. And it's not the men's fault. Hell, this Ines lady was in THEIR locker room! What was she even doing in there? There's no reason for that. If a man waltzed into a women's locker room, do you know how much shit would hit the fan?
If you're a typical women, you're probably thinking, "Wow, Jess, have you no self-respect? Don't you think women should be respected?" Sure I do. And that's why this lady demanding an apology from the Jets is irking me. Instead of laughing off the catcalls and whistles and holding her head high, she's drawing attention to herself and women in sports. You can't tell me Erin Andrews has never been whistled at. Hell, I'm pretty sure I whistled at her. Take it as a compliment!
Anyway, where I'm going with this is that some ladies ask for the attention. This Ines lady was certainly asking for it if A) she was in the locker room and B) evidently she was clad in very little clothing. For example, I saw a wannabe news reporter covering a football game at Nebraska who was donned in a FOOTBALL JERSEY and KNEE HIGH BOOTS. Now, I'm sorry, does that girl really think that she's being respectful of herself in a long football jersey? Does she really think she's being taken seriously as she's on the sidelines? No WAY! But same goes for the girls who wear "professional" clothing that is two sizes too tight or six inches too short. These women may be the smartest people in the world, but when they look like they're "asking for it," then they're not going to be taken seriously by anyone, let alone a bunch of half-naked football players in a locker room.
Women in sports deserve respect. I deserve respect for the work I do. It's a man's world in sports. How many professional sports are for women? Basketball? Volleyball? No major American sports are played by women. It's very, very tough for women to crack into sports media and sound legit. I hate to say it, but it's true. Women need to stick together and be SMART out there. Throw away your work-appropriate MINI SKIRT, PLEASE!
Anyway, I'm sorry for this rant. But I just want it to be known that not all women are on Ines's side. She needs to be respectful of herself before she can gain the respect of men in sports. Who knows? Maybe I'd be singing a different tune if I wore a size 2, but I'm doubtful.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A Few Things...
I haven't written a blog in FOREVER. My complete apologies. My life has been so busy lately! Just as the dog days of summer were getting me down, then football season started and my life has been a whirlwind. So, I just thought I'd update my readers on a few things...
1) I worked at Cowboys Stadium last Saturday (Sept. 4) and, although it looks like something out of Star Trek, I was completely impressed. Although I will probably be killed by some Nebraska folk if I even THINK about cheering for the Cowboys, but I will say that if I get the chance to go to a Dallas game in that stadium I'd go in a heartbeat. Right now I'm choosing to watch Big Brother over the Cowboys vs. Redskins game though, so I think y'all are safe. I'm a bandwagon Saints fan all the way.
2) Speaking of the Saints, Reggie Bush is hot. He so does not deserve to get his Heisman stripped away. I think all beautiful men should get Heismans.
3) Also, speaking of bandwagoning, I've adopted the Rangers as my baseball team. I think this is fair considering Lincoln's "Saltdogs" were the closest thing I ever got to seeing to professional baseball in Nebraska. I love Joba Chamberlain, so I've always cheered on the Yankees. However, when I saw that the Rangers swept their series against the Yankees this weekend, I caught myself doing a little "hoorah" and a fist pump. I belong on Jersey Shore.
4) I discovered womping and I'm addicted. Let me preface this: Womping is not kicking someone's ass, nor is it any kind of sexual activity. Rather, it's a newly-invented dance move by my Norman friends. This weekend, I was invited to Norman to go to the Oklahoma vs. Florida State game (eeeeeek!). The night before witnessing a great FSU womping, I went out and did some real life womping on the dance floor. Right now, I'd like you all to get out of your chair, stand up, place your feet hip-width apart and then think of the word "womp." Now, as your thinking of the word "womp," start dancing how you think the word "womp" would make you want to dance. Yes, folks, this is WOMPING. And it's awesome. It's like being on drugs only not being on drugs. It's just letting your body womp. The best songs to womp to are wompy songs. For instace, do you remember Genuwine's song "Pony" back in the '90s? If not, go YouTube it. Those huge bass beats in the backgrounds? The ones that sound like someone is shoving a microphone down his throat and making frog-like sounds? Yeah, those are wompy noises. Now try dancing to it. You'll probably look like you're actually riding a pony. That's a start. Womp like I did this weekend and you'll probably burn 2,000 calories and have every man, woman and child laughing at you. It's glorious.
5) Big Brother is ridiculous tonight. The season finale is this Wednesday, so tonight is kind of a "recap" of the season. If you've never seen Big Brother, then you live under a rock. It's great unscripted fun. But tonight is completely scripted. It sounds like the producers told the last three contestants to walk around the house aimlessly talking about the past three months they've spent together in the house. In fact I'm pretty sure that's what they did. It WAS really awkward to watch three great-looking guys walk around the house trying to recall the shit they did all season. But then I muted it and now I'm just watching three great-looking guys walk around. I feel a little perverted. Ah well, I'm only human.
EEEeKK, my favorite white guy-trying-to-be-black is on TV right now! EMINEM! His eyes are very scary. He looks surprisingly sober. I like doped up Eminem better maybe. Look at him trying to get his act together! But a sober Eminem means the VMAs are on MTV right now and I'm stoked to hear Chelsea Handler's opening act, so I'm out.
I hope I caught y'all up with my first few weeks of August. I'll leave you with these parting words... ride it, my pony, my saddle's waiting, come and jump on it. Thank you Genuwine.
1) I worked at Cowboys Stadium last Saturday (Sept. 4) and, although it looks like something out of Star Trek, I was completely impressed. Although I will probably be killed by some Nebraska folk if I even THINK about cheering for the Cowboys, but I will say that if I get the chance to go to a Dallas game in that stadium I'd go in a heartbeat. Right now I'm choosing to watch Big Brother over the Cowboys vs. Redskins game though, so I think y'all are safe. I'm a bandwagon Saints fan all the way.
2) Speaking of the Saints, Reggie Bush is hot. He so does not deserve to get his Heisman stripped away. I think all beautiful men should get Heismans.
3) Also, speaking of bandwagoning, I've adopted the Rangers as my baseball team. I think this is fair considering Lincoln's "Saltdogs" were the closest thing I ever got to seeing to professional baseball in Nebraska. I love Joba Chamberlain, so I've always cheered on the Yankees. However, when I saw that the Rangers swept their series against the Yankees this weekend, I caught myself doing a little "hoorah" and a fist pump. I belong on Jersey Shore.
4) I discovered womping and I'm addicted. Let me preface this: Womping is not kicking someone's ass, nor is it any kind of sexual activity. Rather, it's a newly-invented dance move by my Norman friends. This weekend, I was invited to Norman to go to the Oklahoma vs. Florida State game (eeeeeek!). The night before witnessing a great FSU womping, I went out and did some real life womping on the dance floor. Right now, I'd like you all to get out of your chair, stand up, place your feet hip-width apart and then think of the word "womp." Now, as your thinking of the word "womp," start dancing how you think the word "womp" would make you want to dance. Yes, folks, this is WOMPING. And it's awesome. It's like being on drugs only not being on drugs. It's just letting your body womp. The best songs to womp to are wompy songs. For instace, do you remember Genuwine's song "Pony" back in the '90s? If not, go YouTube it. Those huge bass beats in the backgrounds? The ones that sound like someone is shoving a microphone down his throat and making frog-like sounds? Yeah, those are wompy noises. Now try dancing to it. You'll probably look like you're actually riding a pony. That's a start. Womp like I did this weekend and you'll probably burn 2,000 calories and have every man, woman and child laughing at you. It's glorious.
5) Big Brother is ridiculous tonight. The season finale is this Wednesday, so tonight is kind of a "recap" of the season. If you've never seen Big Brother, then you live under a rock. It's great unscripted fun. But tonight is completely scripted. It sounds like the producers told the last three contestants to walk around the house aimlessly talking about the past three months they've spent together in the house. In fact I'm pretty sure that's what they did. It WAS really awkward to watch three great-looking guys walk around the house trying to recall the shit they did all season. But then I muted it and now I'm just watching three great-looking guys walk around. I feel a little perverted. Ah well, I'm only human.
EEEeKK, my favorite white guy-trying-to-be-black is on TV right now! EMINEM! His eyes are very scary. He looks surprisingly sober. I like doped up Eminem better maybe. Look at him trying to get his act together! But a sober Eminem means the VMAs are on MTV right now and I'm stoked to hear Chelsea Handler's opening act, so I'm out.
I hope I caught y'all up with my first few weeks of August. I'll leave you with these parting words... ride it, my pony, my saddle's waiting, come and jump on it. Thank you Genuwine.
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