Epic Fail

A quick story from this week at work....

I was giving my students a pop quiz the other day, and one girl had her hands clasped in front of her face and had a fairly anxious look. I chuckled and said, "Honeychild, if you're praying about the quiz, it's really not that big of a deal." She looked at me and said, "Actually, I'm praying for my dad. He fell yesterday and is in surgery right now." I could not get my foot out of my mouth for hours.

Boring Update....Trying to get back into the swing of it....

Good evening loyal readers. I'm actually fairly certain that nobody reads this anymore (possibly because I haven't updated in over six months.....), but all the better, because now I can write without the pressure of having to be funny or thoughtful or politically correct. Because, wow, those things are difficult.

So, a quick update: I have gone through a lot in the past several months, and though I won't go into the details here, it's definitely true that I am very different than I was just one year ago. And that is refreshing. I mean, I still have brown hair and my apartment is still a veritable pit of laundry and candy wrappers all the time and I still sing every phrase that crosses my mind, but fundamentally, I have changed. I am moving to Portland this summer to attend law school, and I can't wait to have a fresh start. I wouldn't say I'm running away, but I definitely feel like I am ready to leave Texas (and most things in it) behind and start a new chapter of my life. It's exciting, because I really have NO idea what to expect in Portland. I feel like Christopher Columbus sailing across the ocean, expectantly searching the horizon for something, anything to validate his voyage. Like that, but without the scurvy and funny hats.

I am really going to make an effort to start blogging more. I have loads of stories that I would love to publish, but unfortunately, due to items on my contract, I am prohibited from discussing most of what happens at school in a public forum. Which is a shame, because teenagers are hilarious, especially when they don't mean to be. So, that leaves me with stories from my own life, which aren't really all that exciting. I guess I'll think of something.

Customer Service

The cashiers at the local Tom Thumb, (like the cashiers at every Tom Thumb, I think) always send you off with a very personal, "Thank you Miss Ray. You saved $6.78 today." I recently picked up a few necessities at my local Tom Thumb, and this was my interaction with the cashier:

Me: "Hi."

Cashier: "Hello. Did you find everything you needed?"

Me: "Yeah, thanks."

And then there's the awkward silence between me and the cashier when I try to think of something interesting to say. When I finally do think of something worthwhile to talk about, she is scanning my last item, and I realize that I have been staring absentmindedly at the customer in line behind me. My bad. Anyway, I finish my credit card transaction, and she is searching my receipt for my name so she can give me the friendly Tom Thumb farewell. She is obviously having trouble finding my name, and so she says this:

"Thank you Miss.....Miss.....Miss Valued Customer. Come back and see us."

Ahhhh, that personal touch. That's why I keep coming back.

Too Much Torque

I love the Olympics. I love them more than the average person does. I read profiles of athletes weeks beforehand, follow the medal predictions, keep up with the latest doping accusations and other controversies, and even post a countdown next to my bathroom mirror starting a month out. I love the Olympics.

This year is no different. One of the top gymnasts on Team USA (the one who just snagged the All Around Gold Medal) is from North Texas, and I'm hoping that when she comes home I will bump into her "accidentally" at the neighborhood Tom Thumb so I can tell her what a kick ass job she did on the uneven bars. But alas, I'm cheap, which means I don't have cable, which means I only receive television signals via the $20 Wal-Mart antenna wrapped in foil on my TV, which means I DON'T GET RECEPTION FOR NBC, which means when I turn on the Olympics, all I see are fuzzy colored blobs flipping through the static while the announcer raves about "the most incredible routine she's ever seen." I might have cried just a little bit. So, on the off chance that I find myself at my parents' house during Prime Time, I am glued to the television, because not only do they have cable, they have 700 channels of Olympic goodness.

I was talking the other day with my step-Dad about my excitement for the Synchronized Diving events coming up, and he asked me what in the world Synchronized Diving was. I explained that, to the best of my knowledge, it was two people diving in a synchronized fashion (which is impressive, considering I have lots of trouble getting into a pool gracefully even without trying to be the mirror image of an Olympic Athlete). So, that evening, we all sat down as a quasi-family to watch the event. Two dives in, my step-father makes the following comments: "Oh wow, that's a shame. Her form was just so bad there. Yeah, look at her feet. And the other one's torque is off. They won't score well."

What just happened?

This man, who knows as much about synchronized diving (or diving in general for that matter) as a blind ground squirrel, was acting like he had once been the freaking Assistant Coach for Team Germany. The funny thing is that he didn't think it was unusual at all. I looked at him with the question "What the hell are you doing?" plainly visible in my face, and he just nodded and repeated, "Her torque was off. That'll cost them." Sure enough, that damn torque cost them the gold medal, and our beloved Team USA ended up with a silver medal.

For just a moment that evening, I felt like I was in the Bourne Identity, Olympics-Style. My step-father, by day a normal, somewhat mild-mannered builder, was actually a world-class Synchronized Diving Coach. For us? For the Russians? The Germans? Who did he really work for? Little did we know that his "business trips" or "golf tournaments" were actually covers for hours spent honing the skills of the young women that would stand before the world on the Olympic Springboard. My step-dad might love the Olympics more than I do.

Tyra, Where Are You?

As of late, I have been really watching my diet. In fact, I have been practicing veganism for the last 28 days. Why would someone willingly deprive themselves of bacon, chicken, meat, milk, cheese, yogurt, eggs, fish, CHOCOLATE, gummy bears, Milk Duds, and everything else that makes the culinary world go round you ask? That's a great question. I think I started it initially as a method to just get more healthy, and then it became a challenge: I promised myself I would be totally vegan for thirty days. Kind of like that guy in Super Size Me...just in reverse. But, my time is almost up, and I'm excited. In fact, the only time I have been more excited to be quitting a diet was after my experience with the Master Cleanser Diet, during which I spent three days in the fetal position on the kitchen floor, slurping spicy lemonade through a twisty straw. That's a fun story.

I admit, with all the cycling and the super-healthy eating, I was kind of hoping to finish the summer looking like Tyra Banks (just, you know, shorter, white, and with braces). Unfortunately, that didn't happen. In fact, because I've been eating copious amounts of things like baby spinach salad with tahini dressing and roasted almonds, millet-stuffed zucchini, and falafel and avocado-stuffed pitas, I think I might actually be a little more portly. That's right, I said portly....which does not bode well for my future spandex adventures.

I had a new ID badge made today (something that you have to do when you have a real job, apparently, just in case they forget what you look like), and the man that took my picture (who, incidentally, was very cross-eyed.....maybe not the best position for him) told me after he snapped--without counting to three--that the photo was just great.

False.

I looked at my face staring back at me from my badge, and as much as I hoped it would, it didn't look at all like Tyra. In fact, it looks more like I just got back from a three-day hike through the wilderness, and they let me do my make-up in one of those roller-coaster simulator rides. I could have worn my Ugly Betty costume and looked better. It's really a shame, because my last ID badge was amazing...we're talking like a Glamour Shot. So, I really can't ignore the evidence. I'm going back to my sinful ways of eating roast beef and grilled cheese sandwiches and Hot Tamales so I can get back to my Glamour Shot days and find Tyra in there somewhere.

The Surprising Comfort of Spandex

In my quest to become a better human being, I've taken up cycling. Real cycling. Like streamlined helmets, reflective jerseys, shoes that clip into pedals, you're jealous because I can pedal faster than you can drive cycling. That's right.

And yes, I am the proud owner of three pairs of Spandex biking shorts.

I can distinctly remember when I was in junior high (a time when Spandex as a part of everyday outfits was, unfortunately, still relatively popular...of course, I was wearing stonewashed overall shorts and sporting a chili-bowl haircut, so I can't really talk) taking an oath with my closest friends...a geeky band/computer nerd that always wore flannel shirts and the six foot tall, 280 lb. girl that we hung out with for protection. We swore that we would never own a single scrap of Spandex. Ever. In our eyes, peoples' troubles could all be traced back to the fateful day they chose to wear the mercilessly tight material.

Alas, I have broken the oath. This is not a good thing on all levels, as my ass is, well...large. I mean, I have hurt people (badly) just by turning around without checking my blind spot. So, wrapping it in Spandex and just putting it out there is somewhat equivalent to handing a box of explosives to the Joker: death and mayhem abound.

Despite the danger, I have grown quite comfortable in my bike shorts. I feel so aerodynamic. And super hero-like. And when I pass other cyclists I know that even though I'm not a real cyclist, I sure as hell look like one. Well, kind of.

Right now, I am riding only for exercise. I would love to take up cycling as my main form of transportation to grocery stores and work and the like, but with the weather as it is (104 degrees yesterday), I end up at every destination with a bright red face, wet clothes, and in desperate need of a shower. Last time I checked, Tom Thumb wasn't offering hose-offs at the front door (which is a shame, really). When the heat passes, however, I'm ready to break out my Spandex all over this great city. They'll never know what hit them.