We all like to think that we fit in, but have a few things about ourselves that set us apart from others. I tried to think of a few and while I know that many people will have similar attributes, the collection of all of them in one person helps make me distinctly me.
1. I'm a girl who loves to watch and play football and basketball, but I also get super excited when I get to wear my gorgeous 4-inch purple peep-toe heels.
2. I don't like Hollywood or the hypocrisy of actors who make millions of dollars for a few months' work and think I should be giving away more of my money while they buy houses that could house entire villages of the poor countries they so want to help and I struggle to make rent, but I love the glamour of the Oscars.
3. I have an undergraduate degree, a graduate certificate and a master's degree and I feel like a failure every day when I come to work as an administrative assistant. I despise telling people what I do b/c it looks ridiculous. I took the admin job at a university so I could get a free master's degree and over a year since completing it, I'm doing the same job. I hate it when people ask me where I work and what I do.
4. When I'm at work sitting down all day, I really want to go work out. As soon as I'm off work, I have no desire to work out and I just want to go home and sit down all night.
5. I currently only own one pair of jeans. I had a second pair, but they got a hole in them and I don't wear holey jeans. I've never been a jeans hoarder and don't understand the need for multiple pairs so I usually have a dark pair and a light pair. I'll replace my light pair and be perfectly fine with my 2 pairs of jeans.
6. I'm anti-Apple. I have a Microsoft Zune instead of an iPod and I refuse to get an iPhone. I resent the anti-conformity angle they use while almost completely monopolizing the mp3 player and smartphone markets. What do the hipsters and artists and people who are sooooo different from everyone else use? Apple everything.
7. I'm totally in love with cats and don't really care for dogs. I know this makes me appear quite crazy and scares guys off but I don't care. Cats are cute and playful while also being independent beings who need very little. They can also love on you very gently and be very sweet. Dogs smell and jump and lick you and need so much maintenance. A dog loving on you always involves being head-butted and licked and it's quite unpleasant. And did I mention they smell? Before you jump on me that cats' litter boxes smell, let's review something. Cats themselves do not smell. If you clean their litter box as you're supposed to, that doesn't smell either. Dogs smell. Like the actual dog smells. Every house that owns a dog smells like dog.
8. I hate the band Nirvana. With a passion. I think they were an absolutely awful band and not because of Grohl or Novaselic. Kurt Cobain was atrocious. He could not sing, he had an elementary understanding of the guitar, he could NOT sing (I want to ensure that's emphasized), and his lyrics were anything but genius: they were the ramblings of a drug addict. He killed himself because he didn't want to be famous (and because he was a drug addict and didn't think straight) and I'm supposed to be sad about that? Cry me a river Kurt, you know how to not be famous? You don't be famous. See me? Right now? I'm being not famous. It's easy. If you didn't want to be famous anymore or sell out your music you know what you do? You stop selling your music. You stop giving interviews on MTV about not wanting to be famous, you stop making videos, you stop putting albums out, you stop touring, etc. I'm sure many non-conformists listen to your mass-produced messages on their iPods.
9. One of my favorite things in the world is to get up Sunday morning and make waffles while playing the local classic rock station. Double the pleasure if it's nice out and I can open the windows as well.
10. I want to go on a ship at night. Not a cruise ship, but a big ole fishing boat or something. I want to act like the sailor I feel like. A yacht with all of its lights turned off would suffice, but I really want to hear the creaking of a ship at sea at night.
11. I love ballet. I loved it when I danced it and I love to watch it. If I was rich and living in NYC, I'd have season tickets to the American Ballet Theater and I'd love every second of it.
12. I don't have a GPS and will probably never have a GPS. I do this thing before I go somewhere with which I'm not familiar called "looking up directions and looking at the map." I'm pretty good with directions and as I've seen my ability to retain phone numbers diminish with the use of cell phones, I refuse to have that happen with my sense of direction and ability to find places on my own.
13. I don't really understand what "Esquire" means. I know that it goes after the name of some attorneys, but I don't understand it. Are all attorneys "esquires?" Does "esquire" always mean attorneys, or can another profession use the term? Are esquires only men? Is it a certain class or type of attorney that can use "esquire?"
14. Many of the things I was obsessed with as a child are still obsessions now. Volcanoes, weather (hurricanes especially), ballet, and geology can still get me excited and giddy.
15. I cannot end lists on anything other than a multiple of 5. Lists HAVE to end with a 5 or 0. Have to.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Yes, It Was 70 Degrees Yesterday, But It's 34 Degrees Today
Dear Girl in Too-Short Shorts and Flip-Flops:
www.weather.com.
You're welcome.
www.weather.com.
You're welcome.
I Live Below Serial Killers
Back in October 2009, we got new neighbors above us. From the beginning Boyfriend and I thought they were strange. Since 2009, they're hardly--if ever--gone from the apartment at the same time. Someone is always home and someone is always awake. We know this because they are always banging around up there. Morning, noon and night, they are making noise. I've decided that they play pool in the room above my bedroom and bowl in their kitchen. They never open their blinds and they never use lights. Seriously. Drive by at any time and you will never see lights on in the Creepertons' apartment. When they leave, it's only for short periods of time and it's very very rare that they go somewhere together. If they go somewhere together, they're gone for about 5 minutes. We have no idea what on Earth they could possibly do to earn money except maybe they use the insurance they got when they killed their father/husband. To further compound the creepiness--we cannot tell just what their relationship might be. It's pretty obvious that Boyfriend and I are dating and we live together. It's obvious that the nice couple who live behind us are an older married couple. Across from them was a younger couple--we think married. Across from us is a man who sometimes has his daughter and has recently gotten married to New Woman. Above us though? We don't know if they date, if they're siblings, or if they're mother/son. I know that doesn't sound weird when you think about it once. But really think--have you ever not been able to tell even remotely if someone COULD be mom/sister/girlfriend/wife? They're creepy and I think the woman is genetically altered somehow because she is in no way normal-looking. I thought she had Down syndrome at one point, but she's not cute enough and quite frankly, too much of a bitch. I know, you hate me now. But really, at least Mr. Creeperton smiles and nods, Bitch Creeperton never even attempts to make eye contact. She just likes to complain about our music and call the police when we are watching the Oscars. Suffice to say, the sight of about 10 people dressed to the nines (girls in sequined/bridesmaid dress and dudes in suits) sitting on the couch watching the Oscars while a police officer stands on the red carpet outside our door actually telling us he doesn't know why he was called here was hilarious. I'm not lying; that's a story for another time.
Last week, Boyfriend noticed what looked like moisture in the ceiling. He texted me about it, but I thought little of it because our ceiling has stains anyway. How is our ceiling stained? I haven't the foggiest. Those older stains actually have a reddish tint, but are not food-related and I really think they're blood stains that have seeped through the Creepertons' floor. Anyway. By later that evening, I had forgotten all about this.
Fast forward to early this morning. At 1:30 this morning, I was awakened from a lovely dream to Boyfriend asking what the emergency maintenance number was because our ceiling was falling. That's quite an awakening at 1:30 in the morning, especially when you were so joyful to be getting into bed at 10:00 a.m. like normal adults who just might get enough sleep. Alas, I had to get up to see our caving ceiling. In that aforementioned moisture spot was now what appeared to be a drywall vagina in our ceiling dripping water into a puddle on our carpet. No really, that's the best way to describe it. It wasn't a hole per se, but the ceiling was peeled back on either side and...ok, just trust me. Boyfriend looked up the emergency number and I went back to bed. Fifteen minutes later, I hear banging and get up to see maintenance guy standing on my kitchen counter, banging a hole into my ceiling (and water still dripping). He named a few things it could be and said it should be okay to last until he could come back around 9:00 a.m. today. At 8:30 this morning, Boyfriend calls to say moisture line has extended into our kitchen and now there is water dripping from our kitchen light fixture--what every renter loves to hear! Maintenance says they are going to get the key to the apartment above us because it sounds like maybe it could be coming from their AC unit.
Maintenance visits upstairs. Asks if they have any water lying around and Mr. Creeperton says they do not. Maintenance guy asks if they have noticed anything that could be weird. Mr. Creeperton says that their AC froze up last week. When asked why they were running their AC at all, Mr. C says, "Well it's been getting up to over 55!" Apparently 55 is the magic temperature where the Creepertons fear the bodies they have hidden up there begin to decompose. Clearly they couldn't call anyone about their AC because running it in February when the temps have been reaching a scorching sixty degrees (that's Fahrenheit, not Celsius or Kelvin or anything else) is just weird and too many red flags would be raised. It also means that outsiders might have to come in the apartment and we can't have that, lest they see that all of the light bulbs have been removed and there are people pieces in various dark places.
So maintenance comes back downstairs and makes a hole in our ceiling big enough to fit a man's head in. Turns out, the hole was made so that a man could stick his head in. Said man looks around and locates the leak, which is clearly coming from the apartment above us, in the general direction of their kitchen. Workers must now go back upstairs to do more investigative work because they should most definitely have some water lying around if that much was coming into our ceiling and onto our floorS. When they go upstairs, they find that Creepertons' sink has been leaking so much that the cabinets are rotted out at the bottom. This sink has leaked so much that it rotted through cabinets, still had to travel 6-8 inches to reach their floor, saturate the floor and into that magical space between their floor and our ceiling, then saturate our ceiling and begin to drip in our living room AND kitchen--in 2 completely separate places. The damage was so bad, maintenance had to cut open the counter in multiple places, including removing an entire corner. How do you not notice that?!
Oh I know--you DO notice that but choose not to report it because outsiders might have to come in your apartment and they might just discover the human heads in the freezer that fall out every now and then and sound like bowling balls hitting the floor.
Maintenance did not expect to see such a show upstairs and had to leave to get more supplies. As soon as maintenance leaves, Mr. C leaves with a black trash bag. Who uses black trash bags for their kitchen? You know who uses black trash bags? Contractors, carpenters, lawn guys, and serial killers. Mr. C has not yet returned. He's NEVER gone this long.
We are going to have a hole in our ceiling until Thursday because it needs to dry out up there. Lord only knows what they have to do upstairs, but whatever it is, I'm sure the Creepertons are moving the body parts out of the apartment ahead of time. Boyfriend actually texted a little while ago to inform me that the other car has not returned, but he hears what sounds like shuffling and DRAGGING above him. There's cleaning to be done, obviously!
I'm fearful and told Boyfriend to hide our cats. Serial killers love killing cats. And people. They love killing cats and people and our apartment has both, and we have now put a spotlight on them, thus all but ensuring that we've stolen the focus from the next intended victim(s) and put it squarely on ourselves. We may have saved lives (though in all likelihood, killed ourselves). You're welcome, previous targets.
1:04 p.m. update: Mr. Creeperton HAS returned, but did it creepily. Boyfriend didn't notice his return. What he DID notice, however, was that Mr. C. is leaving with ANOTHER black trash bag! Actually, he's walked outside and put the trash bag in his truck and is just sitting there. Boyfriend looked out of the blinds and Mr. Creeperton was staring at him! Dude sat in his car for entire minutes after that. When he finally did drive away, he drove AWAY from the trash compactor. But why? Clearly he was going to the county landfill, where there is much more trash and much less likelihood that his disposed body parts will be located. Even if they are, there's no telling from where they came. There's just too much risk in dropping them off at the apartment complex trash site.
Last week, Boyfriend noticed what looked like moisture in the ceiling. He texted me about it, but I thought little of it because our ceiling has stains anyway. How is our ceiling stained? I haven't the foggiest. Those older stains actually have a reddish tint, but are not food-related and I really think they're blood stains that have seeped through the Creepertons' floor. Anyway. By later that evening, I had forgotten all about this.
Fast forward to early this morning. At 1:30 this morning, I was awakened from a lovely dream to Boyfriend asking what the emergency maintenance number was because our ceiling was falling. That's quite an awakening at 1:30 in the morning, especially when you were so joyful to be getting into bed at 10:00 a.m. like normal adults who just might get enough sleep. Alas, I had to get up to see our caving ceiling. In that aforementioned moisture spot was now what appeared to be a drywall vagina in our ceiling dripping water into a puddle on our carpet. No really, that's the best way to describe it. It wasn't a hole per se, but the ceiling was peeled back on either side and...ok, just trust me. Boyfriend looked up the emergency number and I went back to bed. Fifteen minutes later, I hear banging and get up to see maintenance guy standing on my kitchen counter, banging a hole into my ceiling (and water still dripping). He named a few things it could be and said it should be okay to last until he could come back around 9:00 a.m. today. At 8:30 this morning, Boyfriend calls to say moisture line has extended into our kitchen and now there is water dripping from our kitchen light fixture--what every renter loves to hear! Maintenance says they are going to get the key to the apartment above us because it sounds like maybe it could be coming from their AC unit.
Maintenance visits upstairs. Asks if they have any water lying around and Mr. Creeperton says they do not. Maintenance guy asks if they have noticed anything that could be weird. Mr. Creeperton says that their AC froze up last week. When asked why they were running their AC at all, Mr. C says, "Well it's been getting up to over 55!" Apparently 55 is the magic temperature where the Creepertons fear the bodies they have hidden up there begin to decompose. Clearly they couldn't call anyone about their AC because running it in February when the temps have been reaching a scorching sixty degrees (that's Fahrenheit, not Celsius or Kelvin or anything else) is just weird and too many red flags would be raised. It also means that outsiders might have to come in the apartment and we can't have that, lest they see that all of the light bulbs have been removed and there are people pieces in various dark places.
So maintenance comes back downstairs and makes a hole in our ceiling big enough to fit a man's head in. Turns out, the hole was made so that a man could stick his head in. Said man looks around and locates the leak, which is clearly coming from the apartment above us, in the general direction of their kitchen. Workers must now go back upstairs to do more investigative work because they should most definitely have some water lying around if that much was coming into our ceiling and onto our floorS. When they go upstairs, they find that Creepertons' sink has been leaking so much that the cabinets are rotted out at the bottom. This sink has leaked so much that it rotted through cabinets, still had to travel 6-8 inches to reach their floor, saturate the floor and into that magical space between their floor and our ceiling, then saturate our ceiling and begin to drip in our living room AND kitchen--in 2 completely separate places. The damage was so bad, maintenance had to cut open the counter in multiple places, including removing an entire corner. How do you not notice that?!
Oh I know--you DO notice that but choose not to report it because outsiders might have to come in your apartment and they might just discover the human heads in the freezer that fall out every now and then and sound like bowling balls hitting the floor.
Maintenance did not expect to see such a show upstairs and had to leave to get more supplies. As soon as maintenance leaves, Mr. C leaves with a black trash bag. Who uses black trash bags for their kitchen? You know who uses black trash bags? Contractors, carpenters, lawn guys, and serial killers. Mr. C has not yet returned. He's NEVER gone this long.
We are going to have a hole in our ceiling until Thursday because it needs to dry out up there. Lord only knows what they have to do upstairs, but whatever it is, I'm sure the Creepertons are moving the body parts out of the apartment ahead of time. Boyfriend actually texted a little while ago to inform me that the other car has not returned, but he hears what sounds like shuffling and DRAGGING above him. There's cleaning to be done, obviously!
I'm fearful and told Boyfriend to hide our cats. Serial killers love killing cats. And people. They love killing cats and people and our apartment has both, and we have now put a spotlight on them, thus all but ensuring that we've stolen the focus from the next intended victim(s) and put it squarely on ourselves. We may have saved lives (though in all likelihood, killed ourselves). You're welcome, previous targets.
1:04 p.m. update: Mr. Creeperton HAS returned, but did it creepily. Boyfriend didn't notice his return. What he DID notice, however, was that Mr. C. is leaving with ANOTHER black trash bag! Actually, he's walked outside and put the trash bag in his truck and is just sitting there. Boyfriend looked out of the blinds and Mr. Creeperton was staring at him! Dude sat in his car for entire minutes after that. When he finally did drive away, he drove AWAY from the trash compactor. But why? Clearly he was going to the county landfill, where there is much more trash and much less likelihood that his disposed body parts will be located. Even if they are, there's no telling from where they came. There's just too much risk in dropping them off at the apartment complex trash site.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Brother/Sister E-mail #2
While listening to Foreigner's "Juke Box Hero" one day, I realized that I had a few questions about this man's "hero" status. So, I asked my source for all that is classic rock (and good music in general). What I got was one of the most thoughtfully considered analytical answers ever. And you know, he was able to answer my question.
Email from Me:
What amazing feat does it take to acquire the status of Juke Box Hero?
What sort of fantastic act must one perform? From what did this newly
appointed "Hero" save others?
Email from Brother:
Well, we have to analyze this to glean the answer to your question...
FIRST VERSE
Standing in the rain, with his head hung low
Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold out show
Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene
Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream
He heard one guitar, just blew him away
He saw stars in his eyes, and the very next day
Bought a beat up six string in a secondhand store
Didn't know how to play it, but he knew for sure
That one guitar, felt good in his hands
Didn't take long, to understand
Just one guitar, slung way down low
Was one way ticket, only one way to go
So he started rockin
Aint never gonna stop
Gotta keep on rockin
Someday hes gonna make it to the top
---I see this a lot in action flicks, our hero, outside in the rain,
standing there, head hung low. I've seen it in Batman, X-men, and the
like. Rambo stood there in the rain in First Blood Part II, ready to
kill anything & everything to get the POW's 'cause they ("charlies")
killed his woman. Frank Reynolds and Charlie ??? let it rain on them
though, but those are just comedic heroes. I think even Chuck Norris
has allowed it to rain on him, just for effect though. Although I will
say, Jack Bauer would never be caught in the rain. Neither would Agent
Jack Bauer, cats don't like rain. So, I guess the first part of heroism
is standing in the rain. Check that box, we've got it here.
Now we look at his response time. He heard a "distant scream" through a
wall. Could be concrete, if so, that's impressive. If it's sheet rock,
still pretty good. But, he's responding to a scream. Always a need for
some type of hero if there's a scream.
Then he heard one guitar blow him away and he was seeing stars
afterward. That's a pretty strong punch, even from a "D" chord. But he
goes to a pawn shop and buys a guitar of his own, and it felt pretty
good in his hands. I equate that to a kid getting antsy and buying his
first gun. It feels pretty good in his hands. Know what other hero had
a gun. The Punisher.
CHORUS
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero
He took one guitar, juke box hero, stars in his eyes
Juke box hero, hell come alive tonight
Not a lot going on here that we didn't cover beforehand. It just lets
you know he's a hero, to someone.
SECOND VERSE
In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour
Thought he passed his own shadow, by the backstage door
Like a trip through the past, to that day in the rain
And that one guitar made his whole life change
Now he needs to keep rockin
He just cant stop
Gotta keep on rockin
That boy has got to stay on top
Here we have a nameless, lawless town our "hero" has come through,
probably rode in on a tour bus with some groupies. It's still raining,
for effect. "Like a trip through the past...," hey, every hero has a
bad memory they don't want to visit. Batman didn't want to think about
falling into what would later become the Batcave. Max Payne didn't want
to think of his wife & kid. Rambo didn't want to think about "the old
Vietnam," nor Rocky about Apollo Creed. But it happens, it has to, so
they know what they're fighting for.
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Yeah, juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
With that one guitar hell come alive
Come alive tonight
Yeah, hes gotta keep rockin
He just cant stop
Gotta keep on rockin
That boy has got to stay on top
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Just one guitar, put stars in his eyes
Hes just a juke box hero, aah aah aah
Juke box hero, juke box hero, hes got stars in his eyes
Stars in his eyes
I think what we have here is someone who has drastically tried to become
a hero in someone else's eyes, which is sad really because if someone
else wants you to become a hero, and you can't, then you're a failure.
And failures never win. But, this Juke Box Hero has become a hero to
someone, defeating Juke Boxes all over the world apparently. He just
forgot to mention it, because he has succeeded quite well actually. I
haven't seen a Juke Box in ages.
Email from Me:
What amazing feat does it take to acquire the status of Juke Box Hero?
What sort of fantastic act must one perform? From what did this newly
appointed "Hero" save others?
Email from Brother:
Well, we have to analyze this to glean the answer to your question...
FIRST VERSE
Standing in the rain, with his head hung low
Couldn't get a ticket, it was a sold out show
Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene
Put his ear to the wall, then like a distant scream
He heard one guitar, just blew him away
He saw stars in his eyes, and the very next day
Bought a beat up six string in a secondhand store
Didn't know how to play it, but he knew for sure
That one guitar, felt good in his hands
Didn't take long, to understand
Just one guitar, slung way down low
Was one way ticket, only one way to go
So he started rockin
Aint never gonna stop
Gotta keep on rockin
Someday hes gonna make it to the top
---I see this a lot in action flicks, our hero, outside in the rain,
standing there, head hung low. I've seen it in Batman, X-men, and the
like. Rambo stood there in the rain in First Blood Part II, ready to
kill anything & everything to get the POW's 'cause they ("charlies")
killed his woman. Frank Reynolds and Charlie ??? let it rain on them
though, but those are just comedic heroes. I think even Chuck Norris
has allowed it to rain on him, just for effect though. Although I will
say, Jack Bauer would never be caught in the rain. Neither would Agent
Jack Bauer, cats don't like rain. So, I guess the first part of heroism
is standing in the rain. Check that box, we've got it here.
Now we look at his response time. He heard a "distant scream" through a
wall. Could be concrete, if so, that's impressive. If it's sheet rock,
still pretty good. But, he's responding to a scream. Always a need for
some type of hero if there's a scream.
Then he heard one guitar blow him away and he was seeing stars
afterward. That's a pretty strong punch, even from a "D" chord. But he
goes to a pawn shop and buys a guitar of his own, and it felt pretty
good in his hands. I equate that to a kid getting antsy and buying his
first gun. It feels pretty good in his hands. Know what other hero had
a gun. The Punisher.
CHORUS
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero
He took one guitar, juke box hero, stars in his eyes
Juke box hero, hell come alive tonight
Not a lot going on here that we didn't cover beforehand. It just lets
you know he's a hero, to someone.
SECOND VERSE
In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour
Thought he passed his own shadow, by the backstage door
Like a trip through the past, to that day in the rain
And that one guitar made his whole life change
Now he needs to keep rockin
He just cant stop
Gotta keep on rockin
That boy has got to stay on top
Here we have a nameless, lawless town our "hero" has come through,
probably rode in on a tour bus with some groupies. It's still raining,
for effect. "Like a trip through the past...," hey, every hero has a
bad memory they don't want to visit. Batman didn't want to think about
falling into what would later become the Batcave. Max Payne didn't want
to think of his wife & kid. Rambo didn't want to think about "the old
Vietnam," nor Rocky about Apollo Creed. But it happens, it has to, so
they know what they're fighting for.
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Yeah, juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
With that one guitar hell come alive
Come alive tonight
Yeah, hes gotta keep rockin
He just cant stop
Gotta keep on rockin
That boy has got to stay on top
And be a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Hes a juke box hero, got stars in his eyes
Just one guitar, put stars in his eyes
Hes just a juke box hero, aah aah aah
Juke box hero, juke box hero, hes got stars in his eyes
Stars in his eyes
I think what we have here is someone who has drastically tried to become
a hero in someone else's eyes, which is sad really because if someone
else wants you to become a hero, and you can't, then you're a failure.
And failures never win. But, this Juke Box Hero has become a hero to
someone, defeating Juke Boxes all over the world apparently. He just
forgot to mention it, because he has succeeded quite well actually. I
haven't seen a Juke Box in ages.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
That Time I Was a Member of One of America's Most Powerful Crime Families
As a child born in the early 80s, I was unwaveringly caught up in the madness that swarmed over little girls when the most wonderful thing that ever happened happened:
The New Kids on the Block came around.
I don't mean "came around" like they "came around town." I simply mean that they existed. They existed and they made the music that every single-digit-aged little girl swooned over and HELLO did you SEE Joey McIntyre and Jonathan Knight? I wasn't a Jordan person, clearly.
Anyway, I had a Jonathan Knight poster. It hung on my wall and I loved it and I stared at it, and I loved being in my room because of that poster that my parents bought me when we went to Movie Time one Friday night to rent a movie. That poster also resulted in the assumption that I was in a family much different from the one in which I actually existed.
To all the youngins: You had to actually leave the house and go to a store that rented video tapes. Oh and tapes were these things that you put in a VCU to play your movie. They weren't on discs. Images and sounds were burned onto a tape that wound around 2 heads and if you were Kind, you would Rewind said tapes before returning them to the rental store. There were even these things that re-wound your tapes when you were done watching a million times faster than your VCR and sometimes I exaggerate. My family didn't own one of those b/c we weren't lazy and didn't waste our damn money.
Anyway.
I had a Jonathan Knight poster. On this poster was a phone number you could dial to, you know, talk to the New Kids. 1-900-909-5KIDS. I remember this b/c it was REALLY easy for a 9 year old to remember and I may have dialed it more than once. Maybe even multiple times. I thought 1-800 and 1-900 numbers were the same (free). While I thought they were free, I still was not comfortable calling someone I didn't know, much less the NEW KIDS ON THE FREAKING BLOCK and OMG what if Jonathan or Joey answered and talked to me? So of course I called multiple times.
So I dialed the number the first time and hung up. Lightning didn't strike me and my parents hadn't yet found out, so I called again. I remember them saying something that scared me so I hung up again. Then I called them back. And they entertained me. Then it was time to leave for church. Then I got home, changed out of my pretty dress and called the New Kids back again. I remember "listening to them in their studio." Then an exciting offer came my way!
What kind of exciting offer? I could own a cassette tape that let me hear MORE of them joking around in their studio! For only $12.99 and it would be added to the phone bill automatically so there was no need to try and get a pesky check or something mailed. Only $12.99 for a cassette of the New Kids? Add that bitch on there. Phone bills were, like, super-expensive right? My parents will never know that it's thirteen dollars more expensive than normal (before the cost of shipping, handling, and oh yeah, the cost of the MULTIPLE 1-900 calls I had made). Regardless, I wanted this tape and to get it, I just had to press a button indicating such. This was all made possible by the disclaimer on the poster that said you have to get your parents' permission first if you were under 18 so they're operating under the assumption that I had done so. Thus the purchasing process was insanely easy.
My bitchin cassette of the New Kids on the Block in their studio and making prank phone calls was going to arrive in an unmarked package (lest someone want to steal such a goldmine of awesome) but first I had to give them the shipping information. Of course, this included my name and address. Now, I didn't understand the importance of spelling a last name or road name at the tender age of 9, but that didn't matter b/c if I knew how to spell my last name, so did they, right? Just say it slow enough. Whomever addressed the package got the street name correct and that's not even a real word. They didn't, however, get my last name right.
My unmarked, padded brown package came delivered to someone with the last name "Gambino." Nothing is written on this package save my name and address. No return address, no business name anywhere, no nothing. Just a plain brown package, slightly padded so as to avoid injury to the undoubtedly fragile item(s) inside.
Poor postal worker. In his hands, he's handling a nondescript brown package addressed to an apparent member or relative of one of the largest, most infamous crime families in America. Remember John Gotti? The "Dapper Don?" He headed the Gambino crime family.
I bet that delivery guy had never in his career handled a package so gingerly. I also wonder if the girls with the last names of "Barton" and "Smith" got theirs faster than I got mine.
Epilogue:
The first few weeks were glorious. I took my tape to the babysitter's and the other girls there loved it too. I was a hit and my parents didn't know b/c surely they would have said something by now, right? Nope, turns out that phone bills only came once a month. When the bill came, what resulted was my first real grounding and the first time I had really, truly, honestly pissed my parents off. I mean pissed. Super pissed. Probably because multiple bills came. There was one from our regular carrier. Then another with more charges. All in all, I had to work off my debt from multiple phone bills (plural there, I don't know if that's sunk in yet) that totaled over $140. Do you know how much money that would be NOW for a simple land line? Imagine the late 80s. My brother got a break from chores for a while because I took over his in addition to my own. A lot of cleaning the litter box (daily, which is better than I do now actually), emptying the dishwasher, setting the table, cleaning off the table, taking the trash out, vacuuming, dusting, etc. It was a low period in my life. But I worked it off and I'm a better person now who appreciates hard work, the value of money, phone bill prices, and not being really dumb.
$20 says I can still find that tape somewhere if I look hard enough. My mailman and I worked our butts off for it, nothing was going to happen to that thing.
The New Kids on the Block came around.
I don't mean "came around" like they "came around town." I simply mean that they existed. They existed and they made the music that every single-digit-aged little girl swooned over and HELLO did you SEE Joey McIntyre and Jonathan Knight? I wasn't a Jordan person, clearly.
Anyway, I had a Jonathan Knight poster. It hung on my wall and I loved it and I stared at it, and I loved being in my room because of that poster that my parents bought me when we went to Movie Time one Friday night to rent a movie. That poster also resulted in the assumption that I was in a family much different from the one in which I actually existed.
To all the youngins: You had to actually leave the house and go to a store that rented video tapes. Oh and tapes were these things that you put in a VCU to play your movie. They weren't on discs. Images and sounds were burned onto a tape that wound around 2 heads and if you were Kind, you would Rewind said tapes before returning them to the rental store. There were even these things that re-wound your tapes when you were done watching a million times faster than your VCR and sometimes I exaggerate. My family didn't own one of those b/c we weren't lazy and didn't waste our damn money.
Anyway.
I had a Jonathan Knight poster. On this poster was a phone number you could dial to, you know, talk to the New Kids. 1-900-909-5KIDS. I remember this b/c it was REALLY easy for a 9 year old to remember and I may have dialed it more than once. Maybe even multiple times. I thought 1-800 and 1-900 numbers were the same (free). While I thought they were free, I still was not comfortable calling someone I didn't know, much less the NEW KIDS ON THE FREAKING BLOCK and OMG what if Jonathan or Joey answered and talked to me? So of course I called multiple times.
So I dialed the number the first time and hung up. Lightning didn't strike me and my parents hadn't yet found out, so I called again. I remember them saying something that scared me so I hung up again. Then I called them back. And they entertained me. Then it was time to leave for church. Then I got home, changed out of my pretty dress and called the New Kids back again. I remember "listening to them in their studio." Then an exciting offer came my way!
What kind of exciting offer? I could own a cassette tape that let me hear MORE of them joking around in their studio! For only $12.99 and it would be added to the phone bill automatically so there was no need to try and get a pesky check or something mailed. Only $12.99 for a cassette of the New Kids? Add that bitch on there. Phone bills were, like, super-expensive right? My parents will never know that it's thirteen dollars more expensive than normal (before the cost of shipping, handling, and oh yeah, the cost of the MULTIPLE 1-900 calls I had made). Regardless, I wanted this tape and to get it, I just had to press a button indicating such. This was all made possible by the disclaimer on the poster that said you have to get your parents' permission first if you were under 18 so they're operating under the assumption that I had done so. Thus the purchasing process was insanely easy.
My bitchin cassette of the New Kids on the Block in their studio and making prank phone calls was going to arrive in an unmarked package (lest someone want to steal such a goldmine of awesome) but first I had to give them the shipping information. Of course, this included my name and address. Now, I didn't understand the importance of spelling a last name or road name at the tender age of 9, but that didn't matter b/c if I knew how to spell my last name, so did they, right? Just say it slow enough. Whomever addressed the package got the street name correct and that's not even a real word. They didn't, however, get my last name right.
My unmarked, padded brown package came delivered to someone with the last name "Gambino." Nothing is written on this package save my name and address. No return address, no business name anywhere, no nothing. Just a plain brown package, slightly padded so as to avoid injury to the undoubtedly fragile item(s) inside.
Poor postal worker. In his hands, he's handling a nondescript brown package addressed to an apparent member or relative of one of the largest, most infamous crime families in America. Remember John Gotti? The "Dapper Don?" He headed the Gambino crime family.
I bet that delivery guy had never in his career handled a package so gingerly. I also wonder if the girls with the last names of "Barton" and "Smith" got theirs faster than I got mine.
Epilogue:
The first few weeks were glorious. I took my tape to the babysitter's and the other girls there loved it too. I was a hit and my parents didn't know b/c surely they would have said something by now, right? Nope, turns out that phone bills only came once a month. When the bill came, what resulted was my first real grounding and the first time I had really, truly, honestly pissed my parents off. I mean pissed. Super pissed. Probably because multiple bills came. There was one from our regular carrier. Then another with more charges. All in all, I had to work off my debt from multiple phone bills (plural there, I don't know if that's sunk in yet) that totaled over $140. Do you know how much money that would be NOW for a simple land line? Imagine the late 80s. My brother got a break from chores for a while because I took over his in addition to my own. A lot of cleaning the litter box (daily, which is better than I do now actually), emptying the dishwasher, setting the table, cleaning off the table, taking the trash out, vacuuming, dusting, etc. It was a low period in my life. But I worked it off and I'm a better person now who appreciates hard work, the value of money, phone bill prices, and not being really dumb.
$20 says I can still find that tape somewhere if I look hard enough. My mailman and I worked our butts off for it, nothing was going to happen to that thing.
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