How to Look Straight at an Indigo Girls Concert

Ashley and I went to the Indigo Girls concert last night. We got there early and were planning on meeting others there at some point. So, there we were. The two of us. Walking around the Coliseum parking lot, not suprisingly in the company of many other pairs of women. Wait, wha? Indigo Girls. Right. We had planned this big group to go, which included at least one boy, but for some reason he bailed. Gee, thanks a lot. So, I called my friend John back home and said: I need help, I'm at an Indigo Girls concert, how do I look straight? He replied: 1) Wear Makeup (check) 2) Wear Cute Clothes (skirt and tank, check) 3) Wear Uncomfortable Shoes (wait, what? shoot!!!! these accursed flip flops!!!!) 4) Don't make out with girls. (ok, he didn't say that, but come on, it's obvious, right? check) Ok, well, 3 out of 4 ain't bad. And it was a good, chill concert. Especially for $3.

posted by me 9:30 AM

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Energy Lull

So, what happens when you are too cheap to go out and too lazy to go to the grocery store and make food for yourself? Spoonful of peanut butter for lunch. That's what. Maybe I'll stick to noontime siestas...

posted by me 2:23 PM

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Freudian Typos

me: i amuse myself so much
mattgrace: what did you do now?
me: nothing O:-)
mattgrace: that's funny! you do crack me up often...
me: wait, what's funny?
me: did you read my comment?
me: hello? bueller?
mattgrace: yes.
mattgrace: sorry, red bull lady needed a check.
me: i get so bored with that excuse
mattgrace: see that's funny too...
me: that's me, i'm a funny girl
me: like barbara streisand
me: except without the short skirt
mattgrace: hey that's my line
me: and big nose
me: you're like barbara streisand?

posted by me 3:11 PM

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God, how can I feel so infantile and so run down at the same time?

Growing up I was a bonafide tomboy—one of the guys. Even though I only wore dresses until second grade, my best friends were boys and, more often than not, by the end of recess I ended up with some scrape orin some scrap. In junior high I was a little wanna-be-ghetto-child for the most part, trying to hide my preppy core. In 10th grade, most of the sophomore boy’s basketball team was at my house every weekend for NCAA games on the big screen (and the Final Four Tournament, even though mom banned me to my room to work on a dumb English project). When I started going to church, I made friends with the guys in the youth group first and avoided the catty girls. Throughout high school and college I became “Reinke.” You know you’re one of the boys when they only call you by your last name.

Then one day I moved away. And somehow I became all girly. Everyone called me "Melissa," and I appreciated it. However, somewhere in there I managed to take the best guy friendships I’ve ever had and romanticize them into hazardous shambles that are slowly being dusted off and remodeled, but will never be fully restored to their original state. I feel like a little kid who, while trying to protect her precious kitten, hugged it into suffocation. She had good intentions, but maybe she needs a German Shepherd to protect her, rather than a Persian she feels the need to defend. Maybe she was just too young to have the responsibility of a pet. Maybe she just wasn’t ready. Maybe she’ll know better next time—if she’s strong enough or lucky enough to have a next time. Maybe she’s lost the only pet she’ll ever have, all because she tried too hard, cared too much and was too naïve to know that everyone needs to be set free to battle their own monsters; all you can do is watch from a painful distance and try to be there to tend the wounds.

posted by me 4:17 PM

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Miss Pat brought rum cake into work today. For someone who doesn’t like to cook all that much, and won’t step foot into a liquor store, she makes a mean rum cake. But it’s not just any rum cake; it’s my mom’s rum cake. I gave her the recipe last fall.

Rum cake is a dangerous entity, especially for me. It’s one of those things I can way too easily O.D. on. Not just because every bite is a succulent morsel made to melt as soon as it reaches your eager lips, but because each and every spongy crumb-let drips with nostalgia. My mom, dad and sister all had birthdays in the same month. Mom would make one rum cake for the “parents’” birthday and then, two weeks later, make one for my sister’s birthday. (By the time my birthday came the next month, we ordered pie instead.)

It’s one of those things you take for granted, like mom making chex mix for the holiday seasons or snow on Christmas. One of those things that you never realized how much it meant to you until it wasn’t there anymore. I don’t remember the last November my refrigerator was brimming with rum cake and I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas for the last two years. Makes me wonder what I’ll miss from these days in years to come. I wonder, what am I taking for granted today? What will drip with nostalgia tomorrow?

posted by me 9:58 AM

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