For those of you not familiar with TAT, pay a visit to Tova's great blog for the rules.
Hello, my name is Alissa, and I'm awkward. Not just once a week, not on the rare occasion, I pretty much snafu my way through life. And that's okay, because mishaps make for the best stories...
In honor of my youngest sister starting high school this month, today's TAT moment is a flashback to MY first day of high school.
Going from my small grade school to the large high school was a big jump. I am the oldest in my family, so I had no big sibling to shadow around. My first day was basically the first *real* time I had exploring. Which wouldn't have been that bad if the layout of the school wasn't like something out of an M.C. Escher painting. The trickiest part is that on the second floor, a wing suddenly dead ends. You have to either go up or down the stairs to get to the rest of the classrooms with a 200 number.
I was flustered from trying to get from one end of the school to the other in the allotted time, and it was almost the end of the day. I was heading into what should have been a freshman honors biology class. As the bell rings, I duck into the classroom, take the first seat I could find and look around. Some of the faces looked familiar, but I didn't really recognize anyone, which is strange because there aren't THAT many honors kids, and I had been in classes with mostly the same people all day. The teacher stands and welcomes everyone to ... sophomore chemistry. Oops. Blushing furiously, I tried to nonchalantly head to the door, when the teacher stops me. My cheeks were hot pink as I, mumbling, told him I thought I was in the wrong class. I heard someone mutter "freshman" under their breath, and I could feel several sets of eyes rolling. I was off by one number on the classrooms. I should have been next door.
To make matters worse, as I slunk in the next room, obviously late because I got lost, trying to slump in the first seat. But this teacher had alphabetical ordered seating, and he had to "place" me where I belonged. I think he was pissed that I was wasting his time, because for the rest of the year, he blatantly mispronounced my name EVERY DAY while taking attendance. I corrected him for the first few weeks, but then gave up. I'm sure that now, more than a decade later, people still think my name is something entirely different.
Anyone else got any first-day-of-school TATs to share?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The One Where I Find Eternal Happiness
Covet. I didn't just want the patchwork Coach tote. I needed it. I stalked it.
I remember the first time I saw it, about a year ago, encased in a glass display to keep the grubby-handed general masses away from it. With its smooth suede, funky animal prints and classic-but-hip shape, I was smitten instantly. I looked. I longed. I ... moved on. The $500 price tag was more than an obstacle. My first car was worth less than that bag.
My *ahem* fiscal conservativeness is fairly well known (read: I'm cheap), but even if I wasn't always budget-conscious, I don't think I could justify that kind of money for a bag. Heck, I didn't pay that much for my (designer) wedding dress.
So I watched and waited, scouring the Coach factory outlet store seasonally, hoping it would be marked down to a reasonable price. Mind you, at this point in my life, the most I'd ever paid for a purse was $30.
Fast forward to a month ago. After another disappointing trip to the local outlet mall, we stopped at designer discount store. There, hanging on the rack was my bag. Same shape, same design, not a replica, not a knock off, MY BAG. Authentic Coach. The price was dramatically less than it originally had been, but still more than I could justify. So, after clutching it adoringly for a couple of minutes (probably much to the chagrin of the sales clerk), I hung it up, waved goodbye and moved on.
Then, a couple weeks ago, I had a HIGHLY successful garage sale. After using a portion of the funds to replace the dining room table that we sold, I had about a little bit left over. I planned the ways to spend it - send more on my student loan? Maybe a nice dinner with the hubby? Save it for a rainy day? In the back of my mind, though, the plan was hatching. A couple days later, I *accidentally* stopped at a different branch of the discount store, thinking it would be a sign if the bag was here, in a different location, almost a month later. I knew, going in there, that if that bag was on the rack, it was leaving with me. Responsibility and rationale be damned! I was going to splurge. On something for myself. That I'd wanted for almost a year.
It was with a quiet reverence that I carried it to the register. It was with a gentle force that the clerk had to pry it from my hands to scan the tag. And it was with sheer euphoria that I carried it to my car.
When I got home, I kind of dreaded the hubb's reaction, seeing as I rib him pretty incessantly about his video game/fantasy sports spending. I took the purse out of its protective dust bag.
Me: Isn't it beautiful? *breathes in smell*
Hubbs: It's okay...please tell me you didn't pay $500 for that bag.
Me: Of course not. I'm obsessed, not stupid.
I lovingly placed the bag back in its protective home, stashing it high up in my closet, so not to provide temptation for the dog, or the dust, or, well, anything destructive-like.
It took me two weeks to work up the nerve to carry it. For one, I was afraid. What would people think? It's sad, but I hoped others would think it is a knock-off, rather than think me the sort to spend that kind of money on a bag. We have several friends who are going through rough times with unemployment right now. I just bought a new car, we have a wonderful house...I didn't want to be the sort to rub my good fortune in my friends' faces.
Plus, what would I do if something happened to it?
But once I carried it out, the world just looked brighter. I felt thinner. And more fabulous. To me, it feels like I'm carrying a piece of artwork on my arm. It's beautiful, and luxurious, and it reminds me that life is too short to only think about the bad. Sometimes, it's okay to buy something just because you want it. And if it's got leopard print somewhere on it, even better.
I remember the first time I saw it, about a year ago, encased in a glass display to keep the grubby-handed general masses away from it. With its smooth suede, funky animal prints and classic-but-hip shape, I was smitten instantly. I looked. I longed. I ... moved on. The $500 price tag was more than an obstacle. My first car was worth less than that bag.
My *ahem* fiscal conservativeness is fairly well known (read: I'm cheap), but even if I wasn't always budget-conscious, I don't think I could justify that kind of money for a bag. Heck, I didn't pay that much for my (designer) wedding dress.
So I watched and waited, scouring the Coach factory outlet store seasonally, hoping it would be marked down to a reasonable price. Mind you, at this point in my life, the most I'd ever paid for a purse was $30.
Fast forward to a month ago. After another disappointing trip to the local outlet mall, we stopped at designer discount store. There, hanging on the rack was my bag. Same shape, same design, not a replica, not a knock off, MY BAG. Authentic Coach. The price was dramatically less than it originally had been, but still more than I could justify. So, after clutching it adoringly for a couple of minutes (probably much to the chagrin of the sales clerk), I hung it up, waved goodbye and moved on.
Then, a couple weeks ago, I had a HIGHLY successful garage sale. After using a portion of the funds to replace the dining room table that we sold, I had about a little bit left over. I planned the ways to spend it - send more on my student loan? Maybe a nice dinner with the hubby? Save it for a rainy day? In the back of my mind, though, the plan was hatching. A couple days later, I *accidentally* stopped at a different branch of the discount store, thinking it would be a sign if the bag was here, in a different location, almost a month later. I knew, going in there, that if that bag was on the rack, it was leaving with me. Responsibility and rationale be damned! I was going to splurge. On something for myself. That I'd wanted for almost a year.
It was with a quiet reverence that I carried it to the register. It was with a gentle force that the clerk had to pry it from my hands to scan the tag. And it was with sheer euphoria that I carried it to my car.
When I got home, I kind of dreaded the hubb's reaction, seeing as I rib him pretty incessantly about his video game/fantasy sports spending. I took the purse out of its protective dust bag.
Me: Isn't it beautiful? *breathes in smell*
Hubbs: It's okay...please tell me you didn't pay $500 for that bag.
Me: Of course not. I'm obsessed, not stupid.
I lovingly placed the bag back in its protective home, stashing it high up in my closet, so not to provide temptation for the dog, or the dust, or, well, anything destructive-like.
It took me two weeks to work up the nerve to carry it. For one, I was afraid. What would people think? It's sad, but I hoped others would think it is a knock-off, rather than think me the sort to spend that kind of money on a bag. We have several friends who are going through rough times with unemployment right now. I just bought a new car, we have a wonderful house...I didn't want to be the sort to rub my good fortune in my friends' faces.
Plus, what would I do if something happened to it?
But once I carried it out, the world just looked brighter. I felt thinner. And more fabulous. To me, it feels like I'm carrying a piece of artwork on my arm. It's beautiful, and luxurious, and it reminds me that life is too short to only think about the bad. Sometimes, it's okay to buy something just because you want it. And if it's got leopard print somewhere on it, even better.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Selling Out
Every year (apparently) my subdivision has a garage sale. They do all the advertising, and anyone who wants to have a sale can piggyback on, instead of having to get permits, make signs, etc. themselves. Plus, since it's a multi-home sale, it's bound to grab more action.
Last year (less than two months after we moved into the new place, mind you), I seriously toyed with the idea of setting up shop, only to find that the date was a Saturday I was working at my real job. I pushed the notion aside, thinking that I'd do it this year.
One of the bad things about my homeowners' association is that they have a problem with getting information out in a ...timely matter. So, I got the notice about this year's sale date about 8 days before the sale. To confound matters further, I got the notice in the mail the same day I had my wisdom teeth out, meaning, I was not in the right mind when I thought a week was more than enough time to throw a garage sale together.
By "throw" I mean strategically place, price and design a layout that would rival many of the second-hand shops I frequent, with specially printed signs, a beverage stand and leather fanny pack that I have proudly sported on several occasions (including, but not limited to, a bar crawl celebrating college graduation).
We brought in a decent amount, got rid of the dining room table we hated and cleaned out some other random junk we had either accumulated since the move or brought with us. And I had several bags of clothes, shoes, purses, etc. I wanted to get rid of (if only to make room for new...more about that in another post).
Bottom line - I'd totally do it again. Maybe not while recovering from surgery, maybe not with the assistance of codeine, but certainly again.
Last year (less than two months after we moved into the new place, mind you), I seriously toyed with the idea of setting up shop, only to find that the date was a Saturday I was working at my real job. I pushed the notion aside, thinking that I'd do it this year.
One of the bad things about my homeowners' association is that they have a problem with getting information out in a ...timely matter. So, I got the notice about this year's sale date about 8 days before the sale. To confound matters further, I got the notice in the mail the same day I had my wisdom teeth out, meaning, I was not in the right mind when I thought a week was more than enough time to throw a garage sale together.
By "throw" I mean strategically place, price and design a layout that would rival many of the second-hand shops I frequent, with specially printed signs, a beverage stand and leather fanny pack that I have proudly sported on several occasions (including, but not limited to, a bar crawl celebrating college graduation).
We brought in a decent amount, got rid of the dining room table we hated and cleaned out some other random junk we had either accumulated since the move or brought with us. And I had several bags of clothes, shoes, purses, etc. I wanted to get rid of (if only to make room for new...more about that in another post).
Bottom line - I'd totally do it again. Maybe not while recovering from surgery, maybe not with the assistance of codeine, but certainly again.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Drugs, Not Hugs
So for about a decade I had been putting off getting my wisdom teeth pulled, a) because of my deep-rooted hatred of the dentist, b) my fear of getting sick from anesthesia and c) my lack of quality insurance to cover the costs. But I had to bite the bullet finally and get all four taken out recently.
I've never been put to sleep for anything before, but I tell you what, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. It helped that my anesthesiologist reminded me of a flamboyant Tony Shaloub, and he let me talk myself to sleep about my distaste for McDonald's (they gave me happy gas first, and apparently it went to work right away).
Next thing I know, I'm being awakened by a blond nurse I'd never seen before, and I've got a craving for Twinkies and a mouth full of cotton. I think I may have been in the best mood of my life.
My mom was cracking up at me the whole ride home. She has video on her phone of me trying to tell her of my "fabulous" anesthesiologist (which she has shown to every person she has seen since that day). I was numb, drooly and bleeding pretty profusely, but boy, was I jolly. I even tried to go in Walgreens with her to pick up my pain meds.
Me, grunting: Ont oo in, oo.
Mom: You want to go it?
Me: *nods*
Mom: You sure about that? *flips down visor mirror*
Me, noting the streaks of blood and drool ALL OVER MY FACE: Uhhh, uh uh.
Mom: Didn't think so.
Spent the rest of the weekend popping pain meds and eating mashed potatoes and milkshakes. Not a bad life, I tell you. Didn't get sick, didn't really swell up, wasn't the worst weekend I've ever had by far.
I've never been put to sleep for anything before, but I tell you what, I'd do it again in a heartbeat. It helped that my anesthesiologist reminded me of a flamboyant Tony Shaloub, and he let me talk myself to sleep about my distaste for McDonald's (they gave me happy gas first, and apparently it went to work right away).
Next thing I know, I'm being awakened by a blond nurse I'd never seen before, and I've got a craving for Twinkies and a mouth full of cotton. I think I may have been in the best mood of my life.
My mom was cracking up at me the whole ride home. She has video on her phone of me trying to tell her of my "fabulous" anesthesiologist (which she has shown to every person she has seen since that day). I was numb, drooly and bleeding pretty profusely, but boy, was I jolly. I even tried to go in Walgreens with her to pick up my pain meds.
Me, grunting: Ont oo in, oo.
Mom: You want to go it?
Me: *nods*
Mom: You sure about that? *flips down visor mirror*
Me, noting the streaks of blood and drool ALL OVER MY FACE: Uhhh, uh uh.
Mom: Didn't think so.
Spent the rest of the weekend popping pain meds and eating mashed potatoes and milkshakes. Not a bad life, I tell you. Didn't get sick, didn't really swell up, wasn't the worst weekend I've ever had by far.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Totally Awkward Tuesday
-Or-
Reason #1,378 I do not have a career in athletics
I've been lurking around Tova Darling's fabulous blog for a while now, but have never done a TAT.
The awkwardness of this one is still a little bit fresh...but at least the wounds have healed.
So, the hubbs and I are constantly trying to relive our childhoods in some manner or other, be it in hunting for all the marshmallows in a box of cereal or quoting "Saved by the Bell" with the vigor usually reserved for religious texts. So when the hubbs suggested we go go-carting one fine spring day, I jumped at the chance...having never actually BEEN go-carting. We headed to this entertainment-mecca type establishment (that I clearly remember as being far less tacky) and took our turns on the course. It was a blast, and riding the high of a successful outing, I suggested we hit up the batting cages, too.
Perhaps I should not have been so literal in my wording.
The hubbs takes his turn in the slow-pitch first, doing pretty well. In typical me fashion, I get the idea that it can't possibly be that hard, so I pop my tokens in the machine, take what I think is perfect batting stance, smile at the six-year-old in the cage next to me, and get ready to swing. First one, miss. Not surprising. I gear up for pitch two. I see the ball. I tense up, ready to swing...and am blinded by white-hot pain in my hand. You know, the sort of pain that kind of makes you think you're going to puke a little bit? Before any more balls could whiz past my face, I step out of the cage, trying to keep my composure and NOT cry in front of the first-graders waiting in line.
Turns out, the slow speed of the ball probably saved my hand. As it were, the ball busted up my fabulous diamond engagement ring, bruised the bone of a couple fingers and somehow caused a decent amount of bleeding. A trip to the ER and two more to the jewelry store, and all was fine. But it was certainly the last time I'll try my hand at the cages.
Reason #1,378 I do not have a career in athletics
I've been lurking around Tova Darling's fabulous blog for a while now, but have never done a TAT.
The awkwardness of this one is still a little bit fresh...but at least the wounds have healed.
So, the hubbs and I are constantly trying to relive our childhoods in some manner or other, be it in hunting for all the marshmallows in a box of cereal or quoting "Saved by the Bell" with the vigor usually reserved for religious texts. So when the hubbs suggested we go go-carting one fine spring day, I jumped at the chance...having never actually BEEN go-carting. We headed to this entertainment-mecca type establishment (that I clearly remember as being far less tacky) and took our turns on the course. It was a blast, and riding the high of a successful outing, I suggested we hit up the batting cages, too.
Perhaps I should not have been so literal in my wording.
The hubbs takes his turn in the slow-pitch first, doing pretty well. In typical me fashion, I get the idea that it can't possibly be that hard, so I pop my tokens in the machine, take what I think is perfect batting stance, smile at the six-year-old in the cage next to me, and get ready to swing. First one, miss. Not surprising. I gear up for pitch two. I see the ball. I tense up, ready to swing...and am blinded by white-hot pain in my hand. You know, the sort of pain that kind of makes you think you're going to puke a little bit? Before any more balls could whiz past my face, I step out of the cage, trying to keep my composure and NOT cry in front of the first-graders waiting in line.
Turns out, the slow speed of the ball probably saved my hand. As it were, the ball busted up my fabulous diamond engagement ring, bruised the bone of a couple fingers and somehow caused a decent amount of bleeding. A trip to the ER and two more to the jewelry store, and all was fine. But it was certainly the last time I'll try my hand at the cages.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Because It Was a Dentist's Favorite Time...
So I've basically been avoiding my old dentist for a year now, after he not-so-subtly issued a warning that I'd better have my wisdom teeth out before I saw him again. Since I'm basically terrified to do that whole thing, I figured it would just be easier to find a new dentist. Which I was totally going to get around to. Eventually.
But eventually came yesterday when I busted a tooth on seedless watermelon (nope, you read that right). After weighing the options of leaving it or going to see a dentist, I begrudgingly checked out the insurance Web site to find a guy who could get me in soon-ish.
I rank going to the dentist somewhere just above having my eyelids stapled shut on my list of things I dread, so I was already out of sorts when I went in before work today. After the initial x-rays, exam, small talk, etc., New Dentist tells me the same thing Old Dentist did. Wisdom teeth need to make like a chain and get yanked. He (nicely) helped me set up a date and time with an oral surgeon, patted me on the head and sent me on my way.
I was tweaking about having to go under the knife, or the wrench, or whatever the heck it is that they pull teeth with, so I stopped at my friendly local chain grocer to pick up some comfort food. Keep in mind it is barely 9 a.m., I'm decked out in my not-so-finest sweats and the only make-up I'm wearing is leftover eye smudges from the night before. I select my (albeit soft) sweets, and head to the cashier, who is the real-life twin to the Simpsons' Ned Flanders. I expected a Hi-Diddly-Oh from this guy. But he must have gotten his TV-alter-ego wires crossed, because Faux Flanders had the personality of horny used car salesman.
FF: Hey, I've been waiting all day for a beautiful girl to get in my line.
Me: It's still early, don't give up yet.
I go to punch in my debit card pin, and he notices the rings I'm sporting on good ol' lefty.
FF: Aw, man, why is it that all the hot girls are married?
Me: Maybe because you are a skeevy 50-something Jewel cashier?
Yeah, I wish. Instead, I grabbed my receipt and bolted. Dental pain and skeevy dudes are far too much to handle before 10 a.m.
But eventually came yesterday when I busted a tooth on seedless watermelon (nope, you read that right). After weighing the options of leaving it or going to see a dentist, I begrudgingly checked out the insurance Web site to find a guy who could get me in soon-ish.
I rank going to the dentist somewhere just above having my eyelids stapled shut on my list of things I dread, so I was already out of sorts when I went in before work today. After the initial x-rays, exam, small talk, etc., New Dentist tells me the same thing Old Dentist did. Wisdom teeth need to make like a chain and get yanked. He (nicely) helped me set up a date and time with an oral surgeon, patted me on the head and sent me on my way.
I was tweaking about having to go under the knife, or the wrench, or whatever the heck it is that they pull teeth with, so I stopped at my friendly local chain grocer to pick up some comfort food. Keep in mind it is barely 9 a.m., I'm decked out in my not-so-finest sweats and the only make-up I'm wearing is leftover eye smudges from the night before. I select my (albeit soft) sweets, and head to the cashier, who is the real-life twin to the Simpsons' Ned Flanders. I expected a Hi-Diddly-Oh from this guy. But he must have gotten his TV-alter-ego wires crossed, because Faux Flanders had the personality of horny used car salesman.
FF: Hey, I've been waiting all day for a beautiful girl to get in my line.
Me: It's still early, don't give up yet.
I go to punch in my debit card pin, and he notices the rings I'm sporting on good ol' lefty.
FF: Aw, man, why is it that all the hot girls are married?
Me: Maybe because you are a skeevy 50-something Jewel cashier?
Yeah, I wish. Instead, I grabbed my receipt and bolted. Dental pain and skeevy dudes are far too much to handle before 10 a.m.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Meltdown - Literally
Riddle: What's black and blue and red all over?
Answer: This kid right here.
Friday I had the unfortunate luck of spending all day lounging by the pool. I know, poor me. I toted Lola along for the day, and instead of hanging out in the shade, she decided she wanted to be up on the deck where all the people were. Seeing as it was something like 212 degrees, I wanted to keep her cool, so I thought she'd enjoy a swim...except Lola hates water. Apparently, all water. Even when it is cool and refreshing. So though she's only 30 pounds of pup, she reacted with the force of a Bull Mastiff, and now the front of my legs look like I've been beaten by a very large bat. So there's the black and blue. As for the red...
As a member of Pasty White Girls anonymous, I was diligent about the SPF allllll day...until I fell asleep for 2o minutes. Since no one bothered to wake me up, the back side of my body got a very lobster-esque hue. Hurts like the dickens, too.
I think it's safe to say I'm a hot mess at the moment. Sucks. But at least I've got some color(s)...
Answer: This kid right here.
Friday I had the unfortunate luck of spending all day lounging by the pool. I know, poor me. I toted Lola along for the day, and instead of hanging out in the shade, she decided she wanted to be up on the deck where all the people were. Seeing as it was something like 212 degrees, I wanted to keep her cool, so I thought she'd enjoy a swim...except Lola hates water. Apparently, all water. Even when it is cool and refreshing. So though she's only 30 pounds of pup, she reacted with the force of a Bull Mastiff, and now the front of my legs look like I've been beaten by a very large bat. So there's the black and blue. As for the red...
As a member of Pasty White Girls anonymous, I was diligent about the SPF allllll day...until I fell asleep for 2o minutes. Since no one bothered to wake me up, the back side of my body got a very lobster-esque hue. Hurts like the dickens, too.
I think it's safe to say I'm a hot mess at the moment. Sucks. But at least I've got some color(s)...
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