It's my party and I'll eat cake if I want to.

I’m not gonna lie- I LOVE cake. Birthdays, weddings… celebratory cake occasions- my favorites. International Talk Like a Pirate Day- this day should involve cake. Shaped like a ship. Or a wooden leg. Or a parrot… but then it may be confused with “talk like a parrot day”. That day doesn’t exist to my knowledge, but if it would be another occasion to have cake, I’d vote for it.

Some people are high-maintenance about their cake. Not me. I even love Ding Dongs. Do you know why? They’re basically cake… cake that is chocolate, and those are two of my favorite things. And that chocolate covering and white cream filling? Those are just little extras.

So, you can imagine that how incredibly excited I was to get to schedule cake tastings for the wedding. People should get married for stuff like this. Free cake tastings. Well, and sex. Which is also free- just so we’re clear. If you are getting married and you’re paying for either of these things, something is VERY wrong.

A friend told me this morning that he and his wife didn’t get any of their wedding cake. He said everyone talked about how great it was- so great that they apparently ate it all without leaving any for the bride and groom. This would be my worst nightmare. Right up there with being naked, covered in spiders, and running through a lightening storm. Yeah, I’ve put some thought into it. Our caterer already told us not to count ourselves in the head count for the reception dinner. He said the bride and groom don’t normally get a chance to eat because they don’t get left alone long enough. We made it very clear that we WOULD be eating. Something else we’re going to make clear? We’re getting some of our wedding cake! I’m so optimistic about that fact that I’m not even going to stash a pack of Ding Dongs in my bouquet.

This is where being female gets you.

Not to be stereotypical, but… they’re doing construction at my work place and what could possibly be a better start to the day than to drive up to work and see a group of construction workers taking a break along the path I have to walk to get into the office? Yep, I’m livin’ the dream!

It’s not that I have a high opinion of myself that I would warrant stares by strange men. It’s that by most male standards, merely being… well, female, is enough to make me gawk-worthy. The bar is low, otherwise I’d let it boost my self-esteem. But the truth is, I’m not the hairy, overweight, sweaty, chain-smoking co-worker they have to stare at all day long. And sadly, that’s simply enough.

Got No Game

In order to not waste a perfectly beautiful afternoon, my roommate and I walked to the park at the end of the neighborhood to shoot some hoops. Or as my sister likes to say “thump some rock.” I’m not sure what that means and I think it’s probably used mainly in the black community. And, since I can assure you that my basketball playing is so far from the natural athleticism of African-Americans, even “shooting hoops” is stretching the truth. So basically we walked down to the courts and threw the ball at a fishing net on a pole. I did win our game of P-I-G, which I’m pretty sure is the white man’s contribution to the game of basketball.

Within a few minutes of our arrival on the courts, a little league game was forming on the baseball field next to us. And this is just what you want when you’re a white girl with no game… in your 30’s… trying to shoot hoops- an audience. Joy. It wasn’t long before a little white girl (who was around six years old) came up and stared eagerly at us. I turned toward her and I swear I could see my basketball gleaming in her eye.
“Do you want to shoot?” I asked.
“No. I just like to dribble.”
So, I handed her the ball and was glad to see someone more awkward than myself on the court. Yeah, I know she was six- shut up! So anyway… she’s dribbling the ball around and I said, “Is your brother playing baseball?” She nodded to affirm the fact. Then I had a really genius moment when I asked her which team her brother was on, at the same exact moment, realizing there was an ALL black team… and an ALL white team. I’m a great conversationalist! I did better with my next question when I asked what position her brother played.
“He plays catch… (I’m already looking toward the catcher when she finished with…) catching the ball. With a glove.”
Well that narrows it down.
“In the grass?” (outfield or infield?)
“Yeah. Not in the grass.”
You know what, I should probably end this conversation, I thought. “So, he plays on a base.” I said definitively. And that was that.
Then her mom came over and asked her to go back to the playground because she was suppose to stay with her other little friend. “The buddy system,” I declared to her mom. “I came with a buddy.” Yeah, I said it. I said it and wanted to thump the rock with my head because I can be that embarrassing to myself.

Sites Worth a Mention

A few months ago, my friend Cherilyn led me to Stuff White People Like- a blog that provides humorous commentary on all things Caucasian. If you don't know about this site, you're missing out on some good entertainment.

As of this morning (and thanks to my roommate, Allison), I'd like to introduce you to a similar concept site- Stuff Christians Like.

Enjoy, 'cause this is good stuff.

Tangelo, I love you so!

"I'm totally addicted to these things."

"What is it?"

"A tangelo. They are gooood."

"I've never had one."

"Oh my gosh! Here, take one and try it. You're missing out."

"What is again?"

"A tangelo... it's like an orange-sized tangerine."


Later in the day, my phone rings.

"Hello?"

"I'm just calling to say how much I love the ta-ang-ge-lo."

"Didn't I tell you? They are sooo good."

"I'm just sayin', you've revolutionalized my orange eating. I love the ta-ang-ge-lo."

"I love how you keep making that a four-syllable word! It's tan-ge-lo."

"Tan-ge-lo."

"Right. You've got it."

"You should blog about it. The whole world needs to know about the ta-ang-ge-lo."

Yes world- you do need to know about the tangelo. And it has THREE syllables!!!

Suggested Expiration Date?

At work-

Me: Do you think soup actually expires? I mean, there's a date on the bottom of the can, but...

Coworker: What's the date?

Me: October 2007... but do you think it actually goes bad then, or is that just a suggestion?

Coworker: That's six months!

Me: Really... you don't think it's still good? It's just tomatoes. I forgot to bring my lunch and I found this in my file cabinet drawer.

Coworker (grabbing the can of soup): Yeah, the can feels kind of soft.

Me: Dang it! I was trying to be all healthy, but if I have to go out in the rain to get something, I'm getting fried chicken!

"Sticks and stones..."

What ever happened to “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”? Perhaps that teaching has been lost in our culture, along with kindness, respect, and basic considerations. Words like I’m sorry, please, and thank you are a rarity in this generation, and will soon be non-existent as we continue to indulge our children and youth in the world of self-absorption. It’s ME-mentality. Children are becoming more disrespectful toward their parents. Teens are more assertive and more aggressive. It’s not that verbal cruelty and abuse are new ideas. It used to be called note passing. You would take a slip of paper, write something mean about someone, then fold it, tap the person in front of you on the shoulder and ask them to pass it to your best friend who was sitting two rows over. It was basic, but more importantly it was contained. Now, platforms like MySpace expand the limited world of classroom note passing to the infinite world of cyberspace. You don’t just tell your best friend what a bitch someone is, you tell the world… including the person named. And, it can all be done anonymously. Though because our teenagers are so self-absorbed, they often want the attention it brings- because clearly everyone in the world wants to know what they think.

In case you missed the story, a teenage girl was recently ambushed, assaulted, and beaten by a group of eight girls (ages 14-18) because she allegedly wrote something negative about a couple of them on MySpace. One girl lured her to a house, where for 30 minutes, they punched, slapped, and beat her- while two guys stood watch outside. The girl was knocked unconscious at one point, and suffered hearing loss in one ear, and a loss of vision in one eye, along with suffering a concussion. Tell this girl that words will never hurt her!

What does this beating have to do with being self-absorbed? Well, if a carefully planned ambush and physical assault over an alleged verbal insult isn’t enough- one of the girls videotaped the entire 30-minute beating so they could post it on the internet. Wouldn’t you be proud of this behavior? Even negative fame is fame when all you care about is getting attention. And, just in case my ME-mentality point isn’t sinking in, after the girls were arrested, they were laughing and joking at the police station, lamenting over the fact they wouldn’t make it to the beach and asking if they would get out in time to make it to cheerleading practice.

I wish I were shocked by stories like this, but it’s difficult when they’ve become so commonplace. Somehow though, disappointment, sadness, and discouragement are still with me… along with frustration. Sure, we can blame music, and television and the barrage of teen-obsessed shows out there, but when that TV turns off, those teens are left living in a house with their parents- parents like the mother of one of the girls in the assault- the mother who stated on national television, “the incident was being overblown” by the sheriff. Overblown? OVERBLOWN?! Her daughter and friends beat a defenseless girl into unconsciousness. Since I don’t believe in attacking with sticks and stones, let me say this- she’s stupid.

An Imaginary Confrontation

“Do they train you people to be rude?” I was practicing what I would say. For the past few hours, I’d had several conversations in my mind, for every situation I could possibly encounter- only assuming the worst. It felt natural to prepare, considering what I’d been told.

“Don’t go to David’s Bridal,” a friend said. “This saleswoman was so rude to me.”

“Oh… don’t go to David’s Bridal, my wife had a horrible experience there.” That was from a co-worker.

Great. Hours of online searching, hundreds of dresses and the one I loved… the ONE… was of course a dress from David’s Bridal.

Just in case the two people I know personally were exceptions to the bridal experience, I googled “David’s Bridal experience.” You know how some people self-diagnose themselves using the internet and what they initially thought was allergies suddenly turns out to be bird flu because both involve coughing and well, that’s what the internet said. Yeah, it was something like that. There were a lot of people who have posted their opinions about David’s Bridal- hundreds of them. People who obviously have nothing better to do than to get on the internet and share their opinions and complain. Seriously, the only thing more pathetic is spending hours reading those comments, then blogging about them. But, whatever.

So, for every one positive experience, there were seventy-five negative ones. I guess that makes sense though. Most people who have good experiences like to just go on about their joy-filled lives, skipping and smiling. You think skipping isn’t as popular as it used to be, but people still love it- they just need good experiences to bring it out. It’s the bad experiences that fester until we can get online and expunge the demons of our complaints. And that’s where I found myself- online with page after page of bridal horrors. After an hour of reading, I was so worked up, I was suddenly having imaginary conversations with rude saleswomen at David’s Bridal.

Everyone would be so stressed and hurried and tense. I’d walk in and some bridal consultant who thinks she’s an expert on everything about being a woman and being engaged would start telling me what dress she thought I needed to wear and was I going to do something about my hair before the wedding and how I should probably start a skin care routine to improve my complexion and if I would lose ten pounds, the dress would be much more flattering. And this situation became so real that I armed myself with an arsenal of smart remarks, ready to put her in her place, and tell her exactly what she could do with that veil. Or, I would calmly look at her in the midst of her condescending advice giving and simply say, “Simmer down NOW.” Either way.

I woke up the next morning in complete defense mode. I was ready to visit David’s Bridal and I was in no mood to take crap from their bridal consultants. My complaint demons were festering and I was already preparing a blog entry about how I ended up in a cat fight with the consultant, destroyed the store in the process, and was forever banned from the store… and I would be getting married in a second choice gown because the one I loved was ONLY sold at David’s Bridal. That would be my story.

Drama always makes for a better story. Drama OR adding “and then I found twenty dollars” to the end of any story suddenly makes it more interesting. But there was no drama, no evil bridal consultant, and no cat fight. To the contrary, it was a rather pleasant experience. My consultant and I chatted it up in the dressing room. I asked her what it was like to work with all the high-strung emotionally unstable brides and their demanding mothers. She didn’t try to get me in another gown, or tell me what to do with my hair or skin care. She simply got the dress I asked for, helped me in it, and provided accessory choices. In turn, I offered a few suggestions for their store, like providing a martini bar to calm the nerves of all the pushy brides. They should look into that.

So, I tried on the dress I loved and that was it. One dress and I was finished. As I left the store and walked across the parking lot, there was a small part of me that was disappointed by the lack of drama. I was disappointed that I wouldn’t have an interesting blog entry about my experience. I was disappointed… that was until I looked down and found twenty dollars. Then, I skipped to the car.