Monthly Archives: September 2009

Smooth Move Slick

Standard
I wish I looked this cool... I definitely did not. Just ask the rest of the folks who saw me.

I wish I looked this cool... I definitely did not. Just ask the rest of the folks who saw me.

If you have known me for very long (and even if you haven’t) you may have noticed that I am not, shall we say “graceful.”  I have the ability to trip over nothing.  I can regularly say the absolutely wrong thing at the wrong time; it’s as if I don’t have filter.  And I have been known to fail miserably when it comes to telling jokes.  On any given day, I either can’t remember how to tell the joke (which I don’t realize till I have already started it) or I ruin the punch line. 

The other day, at the gym, I was on the treadmill and watching the television in front of me.  I had my headphones plugged into the treadmill so that I could in fact listen to the show I was watching.  Then, all of the sudden…

ZAP!

In reaction to the electric shock I got to my ear drum, my head twitched to the right, my shoulder raised, and I grimaced.  That was weird.   I kept walking.

 

ZAP!

Ouch!  Again with the twitch, spastic shoulder shrug and a constipated look on my face.  What the…? I took out my right ear phone and looked at it as if it were possessed.

I got a glimpse of the guy behind me, on an elliptical. He looked away as soon as I made eye contact.

Awesome, this guy thinks I have turrets.

Why am I telling you this? In the event that you find yourself in a similar situation, do yourself a favor and take your headphones off.  Save yourself the pain to your cochlear and your socical status.

Friends Don’t Set Friends Up on Blind Dates

Standard

blind-dateI’ve been on my fair share of blind dates and I can honestly say, they have all been bad.  What’s worse to me then the blind date itself, is the friend that thought it would be a good idea in the first place.  I was always under the impression that blind dates were somewhat of an act of pity or charity.  But the friend who conspired against you will tell you “I want this to happen because I think so highly of both of you.” 

No they don’t… they just have a sick sense of humor.  Here’s why I feel this way.

My first blind date happened the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was in Whitefish, MT (where I have been spent many-a-summer) and bored out of my mind.  A friend of my mom’s knew of an “attractive, eligible bachelor” that would be fun getting to know. “Good ‘ol Texas boy.”  Uh huh.

He called. I answered. We arranged the time and place. Date set.

I show up to this quaint little French restaurant and I guessed that he was the man sitting all by his lonesome on the outdoor patio at a table for two. 

“Hi, are you…..?” I can not remember this guy’s name now, so we’ll call him Joe.

“Yeah,” he answered. Didn’t get up, shake my hand, pull my chair.  Nada.  Not sure what part of Texas he was from but clearly, he didn’t live there long enough.

Conversation was OK, at best.  There were some awkward pauses here and there and subject matter that I couldn’t follow along with to save my life. Needless to say, the best part of the date was leaving.  Strike 1.

My next blind date was my own doing.  The following summer, I was back in Montana and working at a restaurant as a waitress (which I miss terribly).  Two UPS men were seated in my section: one an older gentleman, the other hot more my age. Thank God for those brown shorts.

Serving them was fun and easy. They were chipper, patient, and engaging; asked where I was from (my accent tends to make people wonder), what I was doing in Montana, etc.

When they left, I went to gather my change when I noticed what looked like writing on the back of the receipt.  I flipped it over and on the back, the young hot one had left me his number and a request for dinner sometime soon.

“Heck yes!” I thought to myself.  So I called. He answered. We arranged the time and place. Date set.

Date sucked… yet again.  The entire date, he talked about the process of making beer. I don’t have anything against beer, but the art and calculation on just how to hold a bong ain’t the way to get this girl’s attention.  Strike 2.

The last and latest is my favorite.  Blind date “numero tres” never actually even happened.  He asked to reschedule… then didn’t.  And, BONUS, in a seriously twisted and terrible act of fate (and irony) I found out that he had seriously dated a friend of a friend, who I met the weekend before.  I know it doesn’t sound too convoluted, but I am telling you, the social network of the entire state of Colorado shrunk to the size of an atom.  Strike 3.

If you are someone’s friend and have the intention of setting them up on a blind date, please do them a favor and do your homework.  Even Kevin Bacon knows the “6-degrees of seperation” theory. 

I’d hate to give the impression that I am bitter or cynical.  But for the sanity of men and women everywhere… please stop setting your friends up on blind dates because at the end of the day, no one is actually blind, right?

Story of My Life

Standard

 

Not sure how you get these confused... but don't worry, I figured it out.

Not sure how you get these confused... but don't worry, I figured it out.

 

 

 

 

 

Saturday night, my friend and I went to a parade of sorts in downtown Colorado Springs.  Apparently, every year, the International Association of Fire Fighters gathers in this quaint city to celebrate and commemorate fallen brethren from across the country.  In uniform and performing “Amazing Grace” by bagpipes, it draws quite the crowd.

 

After their performance and dedication ceremony, they hurd to a place called “Jack Quinn’s,” an authentic Irish pub that typically has live celtic music every weekend.  My friend and I like Irish music as preformed by firefighters in kilts with hard-hats… who wouldn’t? 

So there we are, listening to music and meeting local heroes, thanking them for their service and good looks “strong character”.  Two in particular seemed mutually appreciative, so the four of us hung by the band.

This is where my serious lack of “stealth” comes into play.  The one that I was fond of per se, walked towards the bathroom to take a call.  Not really knowing what to do with myself, I decided to go the bathroom and freshen up.  Can I just say that as a woman, I still haven’t figured out how you freshen up? 

He stood leaning against the wall, facing both entrances to the bathroom.  I decided to play it cool and not make eye contact.  As I walked by, concentrating on not looking observant but rather oblivious, I took a sharp right through the bathroom door.

The men’s bathroom door.

Now I’m not really sure why or how you confuse the women’s and men’s sign when it is clearly written in English, represented in a picture, and then made available in brail, but your’s truly never ceases to pull off the impossible.

When I realized that the reason the “women” seemed to be more robust and hairy than normal, I threw up my hands, squealed, spun around and tackled about three girls as I ran into the girls’ restroom.

And Mr. Hottie-with-a-body caught the whole thing. Front row-center.

As I stared at myself in the mirror, mortified, I realized that there was going to be no way to recover.  So I didn’t even try. I walked out, head down, avoiding eye contact as I approached my party.  Jordan, my friend turned around to ask what was wrong.  Then, Adonis (the greek god himself) piped up and told the story with his perfectly white and aligned smile.

I didn’t know what to do… and I guess that worked, because he gave me a huge hug and said, “That was the most adorable thing I have ever seen.”

And as quickly as it had happened, I was over it.  Brownie points for Mere Bear.

Allow Me to Clarify

Standard

“Hi, I’m Sean, and you are?”

“Hi, I’m Meredith. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“So, what ethnicity are you?”

This conversation happened last night. Actually, this conversation has happened frequently over the course of the last year.  Apparently, there is a suspicion on the part of most strangers, and airport personnel, that I am not American.  I am actually told by everyone who asks that their initial impression is “middle eastern.”

Now, as for people that I meet in social situations, the question is fair I suppose. I do have dark hair, dark eyes and pastyfair skin.  I’m 5’6″, which taller than the average woman and most people tend to think I am older than I am. 

 But as for airport staff who ask and then proceede pull me aside to perform a full-body pat down, I do get offended.  Because that’s profiling. And profiling is illegal.  They hold eye contact, as if to see if I’ll look away first. I don’t. They ask me where I’m headed and why I’m going there. They look at my license for an inordinate amount of time. And for some reason, they always, always, pull me aside.  

“Wait, why am I being asked to go through a second search?”

“It’s random ma’am, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Random my butt.

So, if you have met me in person and thought “I wonder where she’s from?” Allow me to clarify. I’m from Texas. But my geneology is heavily influenced by Europe and American Indian.  On my mom’s side, I am French and Polish.  My grandfather is French, and I definitely go his coloring.  My grandmother is Polish (blonde hair, blue eyes, tan skin, etc) and my brother got her coloring.   My brother and I have the same smile… that’s about it.

My dad’s dad is German, Scottish, and Cherokee Indian and his mother was of Czech descent.  Like I said, heavy European influence.  By technicality, I am 1/8 Cherokee Indian which means I probably could have received a nice scholarship for college, but the application process was ridiculous. Sorry Dad.

Here’s the story that initially sparked what seemed to be the general curiosity:

My senior year of college, I was the Vice President of the International Business Council.  (I know, I’m super cool.)  The professor that sponsored us knew the Jordanian ambassador.  Phone calls were made and one lovely morning in October, the IBC went to Washington DC to meet him at the Jordanian Embassy. 

He was handsome, incredibly well spoken and articulate, politcally savvy and diplomatic to a “t”.  After a question and answer session, his daughters entered the room, and he introduced them.

Now, I need to mention that my roommate at the time was (and still is) Egyptian.  As the ambassador’s daughters approached us, they introduced themselves to my roommate and I. They asked where she was from because she obviously looked like them. When she answered “Egypt,” they turned to me and asked “And where are you from? You looked Palestinian.”

It took me a minute to process what they said.  I don’t even know if I know where Palestine is… crap. 

“No, I’m not,” I answered as formally as possible. “I’m from Texas.”  Brilliant Mere.

I suppose it’s saying something if real middle easterner’s think you are one of them; perhaps the impression hold a little truth.  But the fact of the matter is that I’m not.  Just in case you were wondering.

 

Brandon Heath

Standard

As of late, my newest favorite artist is Brandon Heath.  His lyrics hit home to me in a big way and I can’t seem to get enough of his songs. Riddled with metaphors, biblical imagery, and personal battles too few admit to, I feel like someone put music to heart.

If you like this, check our Bebo Norman, Phil Wickham, Jason Morant, and Shane & Shane.

Cruel & Unusual

Standard

I’m sure I’ll be ashamed of this post tomorrow… but for now, I think it’s funny.  *smirk*

I was driving to work the other day, taking a new route (trying to mix things up a little) and I came to a red light.  I’m the person that, when stopped, looks at the people by me out of (1) curiosity and (2) boredom. 

Needless to say, as I glanced to my left I saw a car that had one of those obnoxiously large and tacky car magnets. 

This is what it said: “For Help with Dyslexia, please call….”

And I thought to myself, “Shouldn’t that say “For… with call please Dyslexia” ?

I’m just saying, if someone really is dyslexic and they really do need help, that magnet ain’t gonna help ’em.

Trust me, I’m in marketing.

I almost bought this...

I almost bought this...

Fantsy Panties

Standard

Lingerie parties.  They are only fun once you actually get to the party.  What no one thinks to tell you is how potentially akward a situtation you could find yourself in when you are buying said panties.  Take my life as an example:

Tonight I went to Target (on my way to the lingerie party) to pick up a few cute things for my soon-to-be-wed friend.  Because I don’t have a lot of money and because I personally tend the think lingerie is RIDICULOUS… I look for two things: practicality and comfort.  I don’t know how often or how recently you have gone looking for lingerie, but for the most part, it typically doesn’t fit that criteria.

So there I am, cute panties and a pearl necklance in hand, waiting to cash out and get going.  As is the never ending saga of situational irony in my life, Target seemed to be populated solely by men tonight. Are you connecting the dots?

As I am standing in a line (behind a woman who decided to buy all of aisle 32) a gentleman and his wife pulled up behind me, with their baby in tow.  This man, obviously married and obviously a father, stood unbelievable close to me.  And he wasn’t behind me either; he was beside me.

Now I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I do have good paripheral vision and this guy kept staring at me, then the panties. Me again, then the panties.  I just stood there… looking at nothing, praying that if I just stood still long enough, I’d become invisible.

Thankfully, another lane opened up and his wife, disgruntled, spoke sharply to him in another language and he followed her to the other end of the store.

It gets better.

As I put my two items on the conveyer belt, “Jeff” looked at them, then up at me. 

“Hi, welcome to Target, did you find everything you need.”

*blanks stare* “Sure,” I replied.  Because I frequently buy myself crazy underware and pearl necklaces.

When he looked down again, it was as if he saw the “stuff” for the first time and all the sudden lost competency.  I have never seen anyone so unable to take an article of clothing off of a hanger.  After 30 seconds, that felt like an eternity, he shoved everything in a small plastic bag and shouted out my total.

The poor guy wouldn’t look at me.   He fidgeted as he stood in place and for a brief moment, looked as if he perspiring.

I lost all feeling of discomfort.  I am beginning to get used to scenes like this and so I am finding that laughing at them and using them for blog material is much more enjoyable. 

Poo Jeff… he never saw those panties coming.