My Hometown To-Do List

As my move from smalltown, USA, gets closer (twenty-seven days!!!), I've been prioritizing what I would like to do with my limited time. Thankfully, most of these things can be done solo without looking like a total psychotic creeper, though I will enlist or hire friends or children of friends to participate. Examples of these activities are:

• First Thursday at Le Q and drunken tacos. This is a nineteen and up gay bar (aren't they all?) that allows for amateur strip night on Thursdays. This is also known as "straight night," because all of the creepy meatheads have learned that drunk, fun and pretty women frequent the gay bar. Whoever let this secret out is an asshole, FYI, because it ruined what was once a safe haven for fabulous fruit flies everywhere. My LAST First Thursday is this week, we'll see what happens -- ideally spending by whipping my sweaty pony tail into my Asian Jennayyyy's face while DJ Poodle dances like a popstar next to us. Either way, the night is filled with shot specials, dangerously cheap Long Island Iced Teas, a lot of glitter, EDM and sweat. This usually includes a lot of drama. Example: a surprise birthday party for a fabulous advocate and friend to gays all over (me, obvsiously) being told to "Go die in a ditch," after suggesting lunch. Ohhhh lady-drama. Sounds appealing, no? This night would end with my mom picking me up from A) the curb outside the bar or, B) afterhours at DJ Poodle's house, and driving me through Amigos for tacos and ranch. I can feel the hangover melting away like delicious cheese sauce already.
• Saturday morning farmer's market. This is the most prime people-watching in the area. All sorts of freaks, trainwrecks from the night before (this is usually me), and adorable families are out and about to buy local produce, fresh cut flowers, and Pinterest projects from people that can follow instructions. I always run into old friends that I'm thrilled to see, people that I will dive into a garbage can to avoid, and meet new people. My favorite times have been going with my childhood neighbors and still closest friends and our mothers. Also, I love to stuff my fat face so the "hot donut boys," of The Donut Hole are my favorites ever. 
• Have a successful date. This probably seems pointless because I'm moving, but it would serve a purpose. I have a theory that men from the Heartland can't take a fiery, assertive, yet pretty woman on a date and be happy.  What's wrong with hummus and mango-press cocktails at my favorite bar with the lights from Peony Park? Nothing. If anyone would listen, they would know this is a gold-mine. A fun, thoughtful date, with a guy that can carry a conversation would send me packing with a glowing recommendation for the men of corn-city. Sigh.
• Go to the planetarium at the lake and history museum on campus. These are separate activities but I feel like they go hand-in-hand. Fellas, once I'm gone, this is also a fantastic date idea for future endeavors. Maybe just one or the other, with to-gosies involved, but still. The History Museum at the University is one of my favorite places. I remember going as a little girl with my best friends and neighbors, I went in middle school while my sister attended University, and I went a few weeks ago. It's peaceful, offers excellent people watching, and allows me to nerd out big time. I've never been to the planetarium, though I've been talking about it for years. I'm obsessed with the nighttime sky and would love nothing more than to sip some Cabernet or a refreshing cucumber vodka-water while gazing at the stars by the pretty lake. I think that the Observatory is only open on Saturday nights, which explains why I've never been: I'm working, sleeping or drinking on a Saturday. Oopsie. 
• Grilling at my favorite couple's house with lots of wine, my dog and a walk. This fabulous couple have been my mentors, older siblings, best friends, and the inspiration for the Summer of Yes. We've done it all: road trips, wild nights out, a trip to Vegas, disgustingly expensive dinners, but my favorite times with them are spent in my yoga pants, sock-bun while she fires up salmon on the grill and I make myself at home. If I'm half as successful in love, my career, and life as these two, I only have them to thank. They're the best team and supporters of anyone I know and have inspired me to chase my dreams to make them reality. 
• Have a picnic, hike and ride horses at Pioneers Park and Mahoney State Park. These two places make me reminiscent of my younger years as well. I'm still heated about my Middle Sister losing my opal and silver ring at Pioneers Park in fourth grade. Whaaat a bitch. However, the biggest bitch is my older sister -- though not intentionally so we'll blame it on my mom. My sister ran cross-country in high school and my mother would force me to go to all of her cross country meets. Ever attend a cross-country event? Here's an explanation from eight year-old me: four hours of  running in circles, wearing weird outfits (the boys shorts were SO SHORT!!!), sweating everywhere and gasping for air, all in the August weather that passed 100 degrees, not including humidity. She would run by every thirty minutes or so while I played with other kids my age- probably kick the can or with tumbleweeds or something. I apologize for the rant, but despite the hostility, I spent about every Saturday for four years at this park and had a blast. There are wildlife refuges, nature centers, horseback riding and tons of activities to just relax and sip on a salted-caramel latte with salted-caramel Stoli. I was drinking this at Mahoney last year when my Grampy called out of the blue to tell me he's proud of me, something I had never heard before and will never forget. He also said I had lost weight, when I definitely hadn't. Bonus!!
• My favorite stuffed french toast with my brunch-bestie. For about three months, one of my favorite and longest-time friends and I were attempting to go to the gym and trying different brunch restaurants in town, then finishing the day off with some very intense shopping. Brunch is my favorite meal of the day, I love the way I feel after hitting Goodlife Fitness, and shopping is my only athletic ability, so it only makes sense. However, I wouldn't do this with anyone but her because she's one of the most amazing and hilarious women I know and laughing until I spit out my orange juice is the best way to spend a Sunday. That, and heading to JCrew for a sale.
•  Finally, a nice night at home with my mom and dog, Halle. My favorite nights with mom consist of taking my Hals around the park by my house while she gives me a play-by-play of her day but she gets cut off when we run into the neighbors that are walking their dogs Homer and Scrappy. Then we make dinner -- which is mostly me making a mess, getting frustrated and mixing drinks instead while mom rescues the failed meal. Stupid Pinterest!!! Then mom and I gossip about the neighborhood happenings, catch each other up on what's going on with close friends and discuss our favorite TV shows. Before I was working so many hours to save money to move, this happened a few times a week but are now a rarity. I'm accepting applications for someone to have dinner with Peggy once I move so her cooking and baking skills don't fall by the wayside. I will be heartbroken to come home to burnt monster cookies or poorly formed pie-crust.

Interestingly, I just realized how much I'll be missing some of these things. My brunch-dates in Chicago will always be sent in a text or video to my favorite Bruncher. I'm sure I'll call Peggy at dinner time to see if she's overfed my already obese dog into a coma and request that leftovers be sent my way. I haven't been fearful, depressed or too crazy during this transition and can't figure out why.  Now that I've typed it all out, I know exactly why: the person that I would want to do all of these things with is in Chicago. He has been my cheerleader, full on with fake hair, spankies and legs behind his head. He's the one that would say without any hesitation, "Sure, fuck it! I'll pick up a bottle of Cab at Targhetto, come pick me up in the slut-wagon, and we'll head to the planetarium. What are you wearing? That's too slutty, don't wear that. You're such a slut." I'm an incredibly lucky girl to have so many supporters and friends. But, seriously, if anyone feels the need to booze while observing fossils or walking around Holmes before the observatory -- let me know. Twenty seven days left!

The Birth of Carlos

Meet Carlos. He looks so charming in his sunhat as he lounges poolside on the chaise lounge. This is the weekend that he was adopted into my family.

Carlos has a Grindr account, if you don't know what that is google it. His profile stats are skewed due to the little-person-ism of the makers of Grindr. He proudly stands at roughly three feet tall and weighs no more than a couple of pounds. His eyes are a little squinty but, as you can see his intricate facial hair - a goatee- is stunning and well groomed. Underneath the towel is a semi-erect 2 inch penis. What they say about midgets having "kickstands," is not accurate for Carlos. Poor guy.

Despite his impotent size, Carlos LOVES to party. This gift from God was left at our suite in the Power and Light District of Kansas City last summer. Some friends from high school were in town for a bachelor party the same weekend that I was hosting a bachelorette party for my childhood frenemy and now bestie. Thanks to social media, the bachelors stopped by our suite with a 1.75 of jaeger, enough red bull to fuel my car for a week or two, tall boy Busch lights, vodka, and Carlos. After many shots, photos, and wardrobe changes for Carlos (his favorite was the lime green thong), it was decided that Carlos wouldn't be allowed into P&L without proper ID. The bachelors said their goodbyes to Carlos and left him in the care of eight very drunk women.

One might ask, "why did a group of men have a male blow up doll named Carlos with no entry points?" I, however, make no judgments (lie, I just forgot to ask). About a year later, I asked the biological father, Nick. He said that the store they had gone to didn't have a female blow up doll and that was all they could find. I couldn't be happier about this. My dog growing up was a bull-shit; part bulldog, part shih tzu. No one knew exactly how these puppies would turn out when my dad and his friends bred their dogs. However, it was a pleasant surprise to see exactly HOW hideous my Maxwell was. Such is the case with Carlos, I had no idea that my life was void of such an aesthetically awkward yet entertaining dependent, as was the situation with a hideous dog later made famous by Dumb and Dumber. Carlos now fills that hole in my heart that Maxwell left.

Where is Carlos today? Well, he currently lives Harry Potter style. Not in a kickass castle with moving staircases and talking paintings, but a cupboard under the stairs. This isn't a form of punishment though; more like an ode to Carlos. It's a closet with fabulous clothes, suitcases and beanie babies. He comes out of the closet for special events such as BBQs and Color Kid's going away party. He can often be found on Grindr, stating that he "loves to party," and asking if he can "eat your spicy tuna roll." Carlos is a real charmer, which is why he's been part of my family name for over a year. Now the question is if Peggy (mom) or I will get custody of him....

My fear of hot dogs.

As I mentioned, the town in which I was born and raised, is football-crazy. There is no word to explain how pigskin obsessed this city, let alone the entire state, is. It completely shuts down. Everything within a twenty block radius of the Stadium is packed so tightly, it's worse than the first time I took only a carry on bag for a three day trip (still proud of myself for doing that, by the way). The minute the University campus is no longer in view, the rest of this place is a ghost town from a Western movie. Examples of how extreme this is:
1. If one is planning a beautiful wedding and wants to invite their family and friends to celebrate this union, it can't be done until the football schedule is published. If there is a home game, it is guaranteed that 50% of your guests are season ticket holders or have a prime tailgating location in the local Newspaper's parking lot. The percentage is still high if you plan this for an away game as well. 
2. Stores, restaurants and offices are closed, have shorted hours or are understaffed. This seems extreme. Not everyone can be fans of college football.... Can they?
3. The most celebrity interactions I've had in my life and heard from everyone living here has taken place at these football games. My closest experience with a famous person, with the exception of Robin Williams in San Francisco (story for another day)? When our team played a Southern California football team, my sister that was working at a downtown hotel  delivered room service to Will Farrel. He told her that he liked her braided pigtails. Gasp!! Side note: now the bitch is working for a different hotel group in the South and has recently been serving a certain dreamy but easily forgotten One Tree Hill star. So jealous.

So, needless to say, about seven weekends of my year for the last twenty-some years have been predetermined by the Red and White Gods. The University also has a Spring Game every April. I had never been, mainly because I don't care about any of the regular season games. People pay to watch the team practice. They pay money. These people waste an entire Saturday that could be spent working, sleeping, shopping, reading, picking up dog poop...really anything sounds more appealing than this. However, in the spirit of unity (and vodka), my extended family all came to the football metropolis of the Midwest to attend this Spring Game(practice). We took pictures, planned who had what tickets (that they PAID FOR), and what bars and tailgates each respective group would hit.

Naturally, my middle sister and I went together because we have the same opinion of the football in this city: we don't care. We're about four years apart and our friend groups have overlapped quite a bit since I was at the age that I should have grown boobs (still waiting on that). Middle Sister and I went to a couple of tailgates and headed to the Stadium. I wasn't in the mood to drink, probably hungover from the night before since it was the second semester of my senior year of undergrad. While at the overpopulated practice, we sat with my oldest sister, our nephew and two of our aunts. 

Middle Sister and I lasted about fifteen minutes. It was the "half time," of the glorified scrimmage and children were storming the field for what appeared to be an offering. Just kidding, it was D.A.R.E "just say no," campaign. I don't know if you're familiar with D.A.R.E., but it's a drug and violence awareness program geared for very young children. Fun fact, I read an article last summer about D.A.R.E's statistically shown ineffectiveness. Either way, Middle Sister and I heard the words "Drug and Alcohol Free," boom over the loud speakers and bolted. We were out of our seats so quickly, there were smokey outlines of our bodies like Wile E Coyote. 

While heading down the stairs of the Stadium toward the closest exit, we were discussing which bar we should go to first, the typical bloody mary versus shot special discussion. I was ready to drink after realizing I just sat and watched a bunch of 19 year old boys play football when I could have been working on my graduation application or tweezing my neighbor's back hair.  The exit was within arm's reach and all of the sudden, it hit me. 

Something literally hit me. 

The velocity of whatever nailed me on the left side of my skull, just above my ear, was so intense, I fell gracefully (not) UP the concrete stairs to the upper section of the Stadium. Half-time shows in regular season includes footballs being launched from the field, throwing contests, etc., -- everyone has seen a half time show. Apparently nothing says "half-time"like an Anti-Drug campaign and a trivia contest. I feel my sister grab my arm and yank me into the exit, which is good because I'm getting tunnel vision and vertigo. 

We tried to determine what it was that hit me as we watch the bump form on my noggin form. This was far more entertaining that the practice we had just left, which isn't saying much. I think that the conclusion was that I had been hit with one of the footballs being launched, I don't remember due to the throbbing pain in my head. I had tunnel-vision the rest of the day and had to limit my drinking because I was 90% sure I had a concussion (after consulting with a physician, I did have a concussion). A bruise formed with the growth on my head as well, making it look as though I had gotten into a lover's quarrel with Chris Brown.

Later in the evening, my sister and I returned to the mother-ship for more family time. At this time, my face is only slightly bruised but very washed out, as I was extremely light headed from the air-assault. She and I were telling the rest of the crew about how I was hit with the football and how disoriented I was, when my oldest sister interrupted our story with her contagious cackling. She was laughing so hard, she could barely get the words out. My sister watched my assailant and knew what had happened. I was hit with a hot dog from the Wiener Schlinger. Not sure what that is? Then you aren't from 'Round Here (hillbilly accent). Here is Urban Dictionary's definition of Der Wiener Schlinger: 
1. An over-the-shoulder devise used by an oversized man that shoots Fairbury hotdogs to distracted ______ fans at ______ sporting events.

I had a concussion that limited a weekend of drinking, a bruise that looked like I was in a bar fight and a very beat-up ego. So, like everyone else in 2011, I posted the events on my Facebook page. Thinking it would be a silly post that would make some of my friends giggle and move on to the next duck-lipped selfie or Coldplay lyric. This didn't happen. I had an overwhelming amount of comments that indicated that some people saw this broadcasted on the big screens, others saw pictures of it or friends' posts of seeing "some chick getting drilled with a Fairbury Hot Dog," and a few lucky pals that saw it live but didn't realize the mop of blonde curls hair was me. This was completely mortifying, but too hilarious to not tell others about... which I'm doing again now. Reminds me of Mean Girls, when Karen says, "Gretchen, I'm sorry I laughed at you that time you got diarrhea at Barnes & Nobles. And I'm sorry for telling everyone about it. And I'm sorry for repeating it now." 

Either way, anytime I hear Der Wiener Schlinger, I feel pulsing right above my left ear. Come to think of it, I haven't been to a sporting event at the University since this trauma occurred over two years ago.Now that I'm headed to Chicago, I don't plan to attend any events ever! Auf wiedersehen, Der Wiener Schlinger.

Supers

After discussing superpowers with the aforementioned Hot Canadian on one of our flights, my best friend/gay love of my life and I were trying to determine what our superpowers would be, as our identities.

LOW AND BEHOLD : This buzzfeed article.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/louispeitzman/20-superheroes-with-useless-powers

See: #3 Rainbow Girl and #4 Color Kid.

#3 : Pretty eyes, wild hair, an underwhelming small chest for a supergirl and unpredictable mood swings. HELLO!!! That is me in a nutshell. Yes, it's sexist, though hilarious. Also, it notes that she is very charming. I'm very sweet and engaging. I'm like a Sour Patch Kid ; sweet and sour. One minute I'll cut your hair off and the next I'll bat my eyelashes and ask for a hug. The fact that I'm constantly surrounded by incredible men that are into the same gender that I am also supports my identity as Rainbow Girl. 

#4 : His "talent" seems pretty useless and with the exception of constant redecorating or fashion designing, I cannot comprehend the purpose of this hero. Does he save little boys from being color blind or go into the nearest Starbucks with a hideous color scheme and make it pretty again? Who knows. However,the description for Color Kid is that the world is prettier with him in it. I can say the same about my friend (don't tell him I said that. Color Kid, if you're reading this, YOU ARE AN OX!).

BONUS ROUND!!

#2 Dazzler. She is a chesty, Britney-Madonna-Ke$ha looking sexpot and loves to get her twerk on. This bitch is oozing fabulousness from her pores and cleavage-baring, sparkly ensemble. If only she had a taller weave, she would be a dead-ringer for my Dancing Queen, DJ Poodle. If DJ Poodle could convert light into dance music, my hometown would forever be in a blackout. I mean blackout in both senses: constant drunken stage of forgetfulness as well as sans light.

#12 Gin Genie, is the combination of the three of us combined. We truly do some serious damage due to our blood-alcohol content. These BAC-induced powers are related to our dancing, obviously, and any/all damage done to our lives by vodka-redbulls, $2 long islands and god-knows-what-else that we consume. 

Things don't always go my way.

Due to my late check-in for my flight from Indy to Chicago, I was given one of the seats directly behind first class with extra foot room (not that I need it). I was so excited for a bigger, more comfy chair....until I sat down (insert horror movie music here).

The man-beast in the seat next to mine was so horrid, the cute Canadian that I had been flirting with glanced back at me and laughed with sympathy. He offered to see if the man next to him would be willing to switch, though his request was denied. Thanks anyway, eh?

Disappointed, I eased into the spacious chair as the surface area decreased as the thing next to me oozed under the armrest, his extremity flopping into my seat. I maneuvered my purse (sorry, Michael Kors, I will clean you immediately upon returning home), between this sleeping giant and myself while popping my earbuds into my ears to escape to what many call their “happy place.”

As I was trying to decide whether to order a vodka sprite (soda on airplanes is usually flat) or if I should just go hard and get a whiskey diet, the darling flight attendant interrupted my thoughts. Not hearing what he said, I naturally replied with a timid, “vodka-sprite please, extra ice.” The flaming man apologized and offered to buy me a drink after the flight but due to the limited airtime, they do not offer drinks between Indy and Chicago. This is what hell feels like. I glanced between the grizzly beat next to me and my potential new gay friend with sad puppy dog eyes. He promptly snuck over an airplane sized bottle of Finlandia and a water bottle, making a gesture as if to say, this is the best I can do, honey. I smiled graciously and dumped the contents of the tiny bottle into the water. Better already.

To fully explain this critter, I need you to step into my shoes (black Coach wedges with silver buckles). I’m about 5’3 and fluctuate between 115 and 120, petite by the definition of any professional women's clothing retailer; Ann Taylor, Banana and JCrew. I do not fill the seats labeled as “plus-sized,” and because of this, offered to trade seats. Even the larger victims on the plane chose to be crammed into their tiny space than sit next to this guy. His dreads reeked of three month old cigarettes, immense body odor, and baby dust bunnies. The gauges in his ears were so large that I could easily shove a golf ball in there, but the infection was the distracting part. I won’t begin to address his soiled, wrinkled and torn clothing (oops, just did), but will move straight to his shoes and bag. They were designer. Explain this to me. Someone please tell me why this phenomenon is okay. I have no issues with dreads, gauged ears or filthy clothes. I know plenty of people that look great in dreads, if I wear my hair curly and don’t wash it for a day or two, then I have dreads (rope hair, as my Grampy calls it). There are a lot of sexy men, and women for that matter, with gauged ears (holey head, as my Grampy says). The people that follow this grunge-hipster-whatever trend understand that the look says “low maintenance,” but it is work to have rope hair and holey ears. And by work, I of course mean basic hygiene that is expected of any self-sustainable human being over the age of ten.

For the duration of the flight I counted down the minutes, based on the direction from my new gurlfriend, the flight attendant. The creature next to me was making a repulsive sound, the only way to describe it is how I imagine it sounds when you strangle someone to death -- except that person also has a phlegmy sinus infection. Every few snores, this guy would make a loud whimper-gasp that was so high pitched (this coming from me, and I sound like a Sesame Street character), I would jump from my seat. Good thing I followed the instructions and had my safety belt fastened, otherwise I would have been on the floor of the plane roughly every 90 seconds. This disgusting sound reminded me of the floppy bloodhound, Ol’ Trusty, in Lady and the Tramp, that would chase the caterpillar in his sleep. It was startling, offensive to my ears, and repulsive. I wanted to ninja-kick him in the ribs but changed my mind because I didn’t want to land on the “no-fly” list. Not for such a trivial reason anyway. Evil laugh.

Ol’ Trusty here slept through the take-off and all of the turbulence on the flight. I seriously want to know what he took to make him comatose. Mainly so I can suggest it to one of my oldest friends, as she sobs hysterically on flights -- it’s seriously embarrassing. You know who you are. The lights were flickering, a baby was wailing behind our row and a small child was violently kicking the seat. I was envious of the child because he was impaling Ol’ Trusty the way that I wanted to. Time for our landing. I look to my seatmate in the hopes that he had woken up and the awful sound (which I’m still hearing in my head three days later), will come to an end. I see his drool sliding down the aircraft window like a toxic river coming from a radiation plant. Mental note: travel with clorox wipes and never, under any circumstance, touch the windows. He loudly dozes through the landing, without missing a whimper-gasp-snore but there is light at the end of the tunnel. I’m in the third row so I know I’ll be escaping soon.

Nope. We were early and our terminal isn’t ready, allowing time for a twenty minute taxi around hell (the runway), and for Ol Trusty to continue his nap. By this time (fifty-six minutes since I boarded but who is counting?), I was beginning to dry heave each time this noise occurred. The Jon Stewart -looking guy across the aisle gave me a shrug in a way that one might give a stray animal but avoids eye contact after that. Right as I begin to ponder the pros and cons of vomiting in an airplane lavatory, the flight attendant announces that we’re arriving to the terminal. My prayers have been answered. As I root for the Tums in my purse, Ol’ Trusty pushes into me with his designer bag, while flinging the drool that was on his face in my direction. My handsome Jon look-alike helps me off the seats I’m currently sprawled over and hands over his free drink coupon. It’s all I could do to keep from sobbing while I wipe my face with Purell.

Summer of Yes

My Summer of Yes began the beginning of May following what would later be referenced as my two-year Quarter Life Crisis. I had just ended my two-year relationship, changed jobs, started working 60+ hour weeks and shifted my group of friends. All of this was done seamlessly in darling spring sundresses -- or sweaters depending what week of May it was. Yes, Cinco de Mayo was rang in with leather coated denim and close-toed pumps.

Little did I know that my new-found and long-overdue singledom would be the kickstart to the most ridiculous, intense and fun summer to date. With the help of an amazing girlfriend, role model and personal shopper, it was decided that Summer 2013 would be my Summer of Yes. I would agree to dates I wouldn't typically be thrilled about, plans when I would prefer to nap and spontaneous trips to Vegas, just to see where life took me. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. No idea. 

Fast forward to the present: end of August 2013. My Summer of Yes is winding down, though not to an end. Fortunately, I can say with 100% confidence that there are still surprises in store for me. I am draped in an animal print blanket in my cubicle on my third to last day of work, nursing a kidney infection, gchatting my closest friend about bad dates and a coworker about pinterest projects gone wrong.

The end results of Summer of Yes?

1. Bad dates. So many awful men for so many reasons. I'm sure they think I'm terrible too, so it's okay.
2. Hitting that post-college point where it's discovered what friends are truly supportive and wonderful people, and who sucks at life.
3. Realizing that I'm lost in my career, I'm working 80 hours every seven days and I'm losing my fabulous hair from all of the stress.
4. All of the above items have pushed me to leave my football-centric hometown, pack up my shoes and head off into the sunRISE (I'll be headed East, not West) toward Chicago to be with a friend that is the former part of #2.