Before you jump to conclusions and assume my grandma is a YouTube celebrity, no, my grandma is NOT one of these ladies. I wouldn’t put it past her though. I’ve recently learned that nothing should really surprise me anymore when it comes to her.
I went home recently to see my little sister walk across a stage and read a speech. You know, the typical valedictorian stuff — I mean, isn’t everyone’s sister valedictorian when they graduate college? (insert proud big brother status here)
While I was home, we decided to have a chill night in (twice actually) and partake in some quality family bonding time, game night so to speak, with a quality family-friendly card game: Cards Against Humanity.
To say I learned a lot about my grandma is an understatement… Continue reading
Growing up, I was taught that “home is where the heart is” – compliments of some hand-stitched needlepoint that my mom or grandma had done at some point and hung on the wall. There’s the part in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy clicks her ruby red heels together and chants ‘There’s no place like home’ three times then magically reappears there. Sometimes it’d be nice to be able to do this. Trust me – there have been times that I’ve wished I could click my glittery size 12 pumps (just kidding, those days are over) together and end up in my mom’s house with a home-cooked meal in the land of a lack of reliable cell phone service where the closest guy on Grindr is 4 miles away. Continue reading
I constantly joke with The Mothership that she’s going to end up on an episode of either Hoarders or some HGTV show that goes in to help a deserving viewer (or the mother of a viewer in my case) who started a project years ago and has yet to finish. *cough cough* yes, mom, I’m calling you out on taking several years and counting to finish repainting the kitchen cupboards *cough cough*
Anyways, she has this habit of “saving” everything from new-in-the-plastic-packaging Tupperware from when she used to be a sales consultant (when I was in middle school), mismatched glasses (take a look in her cupboard, I dare you), and old school projects and homework. Now don’t get me wrong, her house isn’t a mess by any means – or perhaps she just always has advance notice of when I’m coming home and cleans so I don’t have a heart attack – she’s a meticulous filer/organizer/Rubbermaid Queen. Our basement is a prime example of this. Shelves and shelves of Rubbermaid totes labeled with a black Sharpie indicating what’s encased in each veritable time capsule. Perhaps this is where I get my organization know-how.
Well apparently this Sunday was cleaning day because because I got a phone call asking if I wanted to know what she’d found. Fearing a dead mouse, small child, or long-lost snake that I’d put in a Ziploc bag and hid in the freezer years ago, I prepared for the worst and asked what she found.
“I found an ‘Interest Inventory’ you did when you were in sixth grade! It’s hilarious! Do you want to hear what you wrote?”
Umm…whatever an interest inventory is sounds interesting. Hit me with it, mom.
Apparently it was some homework assignment I’d done back in the day about what I enjoyed doing at the time and what I thought I wanted to do when I grew up. For your entertainment pleasure…I present to you, My 6th Grade Self. Continue reading
As I quickly close in on turning 26 (gasp), I started to think about who I am, where I’ve come from, and what I’ve learned over the years. Will this be slightly sentimental, possibly. Will it be entertaining, most likely, I’m a pretty entertaining individual (or at least I like to think so).
No matter how hard I try, I’ll probably never be good at calculus or chemistry. Do I care? Nope. Doesn’t apply to my life. Over it. Those borderline-failing grades and late-dropped classes from high school and college clearly didn’t matter.
Geography is not my strong point either. Clearly, since before I moved to Nebraska I thought it was the state above Texas. I also learned while out there that there are mountains in Wyoming so, therefore, it makes sense to put stacked stone in a bookstore.
If you’re good at bullshitting and wording things right, you can make a job folding clothes and changing/aiming lightbulbs at Abercrombie & Fitch relevant to interior design. Same with putting away sunglasses at Sunglass Hut. Things like this can also help you land a good position after college. It’s all in how you talk it up. Continue reading
After a few months of living in my condo and several people managing to lock themselves in my bathroom because of an ancient doorknob with a mind of its own that liked to randomly lock itself, the little shit finally decided to lock me in the other night. A couple glasses of wine deep, I figured it was time to take matters into my own hands and ensure it wouldn’t happen to anyone else. A pair of tweezers, some creativity, and a little elbow grease later, I’d successfully removed the doorknob and let myself out. Take that, Mr. Doorknob.
Yesterday, I decided it was time to replace it and hiked my happy Hudson-skinny-jean-clad ass (complete with a cute sweater and loafers) down to the local Homo Depot on a quest to find myself two new doorknobs (because heaven forbid the bedroom and bathroom not match) and hopefully a hot, hunky, and – most importantly – handy husband.
Wandering around the store aimlessly, I managed to find doorknobs and a ceiling light. Calling my mother to see if she thought I’d be able to change the light in my kitchen on my own, she wasted no time reminding me of that one time I tried to rewire a table lamp and shorted out my entire apartment, nearly starting a fire in the process. Perhaps I’ll leave that to my landlord or, even better, an electrician.
(Fine mom, I’ll hold off on the light for now. I’ll call my landlord and see if he’ll pay to have it installed if I pay for the fixture. Seems like a fair trade to me.)
Doorknobs though…I can handle that. Continue reading
I swear my mother missed her calling as a personal travel agent. For as much shit as I give her, she deserves a gold medal for putting up with me and making my travel arrangements on a whim…especially considering the fact that I call her at all hours of day and night – including right now since it’s currently closing in on midnight on the East Coast where she lives and I’m in the process of having her book my flight home for the holidays.
She’s phenomenal. Especially when she talks herself through every step of the process. She’s quite the ham to listen to on the phone.
“Okay. United confirmation! You are confirmed! Traveler Mr. ___________. Cool! And because I’m using rewards travel, okay, your first bag is free! Well no, wait, you know why it’s free? It’s because I’m using my United rewards card!”
And yes, this is all her talking to herself through the booking process. Now I know where I get the whole talking-to-myself thing from. Continue reading
Not-so-Carrie recently included me on one of those obnoxious Facebook messages asking everyone to send her a private message with a story of her mother so she can make a book/album/kitschy-mother-daughter-thing as a moving-out gift. Don’t you just love those messages? Especially when there’s that one friend that always messages back the whole entire group just for fun because it said not to? Oh wait, that’s me. So typical.
So per said request of said best friend of mine, I’ve compiled the story of Peggy. It’s not quite a NY Times Bestseller, but…
To set the stage for this, let’s visualize. It’s a Husker Saturday in the football-centric downtown Lincoln, Nebraska – on a home game afternoon nevertheless. If you’re not wearing red (or your blackshirt jersey) you’re a minority on a Saturday in this town. Cue the tailgate party and gathering of friends, acquaintances, and otherwise who all come together to celebrate a common bond of a love of football, tailgating, and consuming copious amounts of alcohol, jello shots, and chili.
Here I am, about to take a jello shot (for the umpteenth time that day most likely) when I spot Not-so-Carrie’s mom and yell “Peggy! Get over here! We’re doing another jello shot!”
Cue the confused looks. Continue reading
Sometimes I wonder who I fucked over in a past life to become such an obsessive compulsive perfectionist. Seriously. Nobody in my family is as much of a perfectionist as me. It’s a running joke that I was adopted, but my mom assures me that she pushed me out of her ladybits after what was probably a long and painful labor that I am perfectly content never thinking about or imagining. Not only am I the only OCD perfectionist in my large and highly dysfunctional family, but I don’t fit in lookwise either. Everyone insists I look like one side of the family or the other, but look at any Christmas picture where the whole family is together and trying not to murder one another and, oh hi, there I am! Standing out like a tall, tan, and well-dressed sore thumb on a hand comprised of otherwise frumpily-dressed (minus the occasional stylish relative who married into the family) fingers. While there’s nobody in my family remotely Honey-Boo-Boo-esque thank god, nobody is exceptionally model-worthy either, and it’s no secret that I somehow wound up with all the looks in the family. So needless to say, you’d think I was adopted. Possibly from a well-dressed family where OCD wasn’t looked at as anything out of the ordinary. I’d like to imagine if I’d been raised by my birth family that I would have grown up being best friends with Quinoa and Chevron – if they weren’t imaginary, that is. We’d live fabulously well-dressed lives be the wet dreams of every child model photographer. And then we’d grow up. The end.
So how does this obsessive compulsiveness relate? I’m not quite sure. All I know is that I’m unhappy if everything in my life isn’t clean and in its place where it belongs. Perhaps I think into things too much or expect things to be perfect outside the confines of my high-rise condo, but I’ve come to realize that you can only control so much before you turn into a psychotic bitch. Sometimes, you just have to let go and realize that everything in life isn’t perfect no matter how OCD your psychotic self tries to go on it. Continue reading