When I was a freshman in high school, I made the junior varsity team. I loved every minute of it. I knew I didn’t have a serious future in basketball, but my goal in high school was to seize every opportunity I possibly could – from athletics to theater to student government. I was addicted to extra-curriculars. (My need to be involved in as many projects as possible today is probably rooted in this addiction I developed in high school.) Perhaps it was my height that led me to develop such a competitive streak.

A complex of some sort?

Toward the end of the season, the JV and varsity teams took a trip to Columbia, Missouri for an annual exhibition game against the Hickman High School Kewpies. That’s right. The hardcore, intimidating mascot meant to strike fear into the hearts of the competition is, in fact, an adorable circa 1900s celluloid doll.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

As the visiting school, we didn’t have many fans in the stands. So it was up to the JV team to cheer the varsity team to victory and vice versa. I can’t remember which team won because they were such close games.

Ok, fine. Hickman handed us our asses wrapped in brown paper packages and tied with red ribbons. It was a bloodbath. But, come on. These were straight up, corn-fed farmgirls with nothing to do every night but practice lay-ups in the hoop attached to the side of the barn.

Our only solace was found in obnoxiously jeering the other teams and their herd of obnoxious male teenage fans. I attended an all-girls school, so we weren’t exactly used to having boys taunt us – much less while being spanked on the court. Admittedly, our cheers were weak in comparison.

Rosati-Kain girls: “We’ve got spirit, yes we do! We’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?!”

Hickman boys: “You suck!”

Rosati-Kain girls: “Go, team, go!” Clap, stomp, clap.

Hickman boys: “Seriously, your team sucks! Go home! You’re terrible!”

There was also some profanity thrown our way, but as the Catholic school, our coach told us to keep it classy.

This went back and forth for some time until finally we came up with something cleverer. They may have been a bunch of Amazon women on the court, but their mascot was an adorable little plastic baby. How could we not make fun of that? And so we shouted…

“Whaaat’s a KEEW–PIEE?!” Clap, stomp, clap, stomp stomp. “Whaaat’s a KEEW–PIEE?!” Clap, stomp, clap, stomp stomp.

We repeated this several times, pleased with ourselves for pointing out what babies they were. We danced around on the bleachers and laughed at our own joke.

Then they responded.

“Nuumberr THIRR–TYY!” Clap, stomp, clap, stomp stomp. “Nuumberr THIRR–TYY!” Clap, stomp, clap, stomp stomp.

It took me a moment before I realized what they meant.

Wait a second. I’m number thirty. Why would they — ohhhhh….

Did I mention that I had a very short haircut back then? In order to keep my bangs from getting in my eyes during basketball games, I used to pull it back in a ponytail holder on the top of my head.

My freshman year haircut.

Before I knew it, my teammates, my coach and even my own parents were laughing at me.

To this day, I can’t look at the shining, bright-eyed face of a kewpie doll without feeling a tinge of humiliation.

Today’s post is all about shameless self promotion! You see, yesterday I found out that someone reads my blog! Like, a real live person. Her name is Jennifer and she is one swell gal. She gave me a “Blog Awardish Thing” which is kind of like a Grammy, but not as political as an Oscar. Basically, it’s like the Nobel Peace Prize for blogging. I’m pretty sure. Here’s the gist:

• Annie Was Here, by a social media/PR professional in the St. Louis area. This is Annie’s personal blog, and she’s friggin’ hilarious. Almost every post about her adventures in the world, happenings on their new farm, wonderfully funny things her husband says, etc. has me in stitches.

To thank her for my Awardish, I am linking to her awesome blog here. Thank you, Jennifer, for bringing my total number of followers up to three: you, me, and CanadianRxBonerMedsXXX. Holla!

Driving while intexticated.

My favorite texts from my husband are the random thoughts, questions and FYIs he sends without prompting. It’s been a while since I posted any texts from my husband, so here are a few from December/January.

Just got a 100% on my airport safety class. Suck it, terrorists.

I’m going to eat ice cream cake for breakfast.

Don’t text and drive. It’s called “driving intexticated.”

I was going to take a shower, but I’m starting to reconsider.

Gotta run home. Emergency poop!

This might be a dumb question, but which came first – pirates or slavery?

I just saw a lady riding an unicycle for exercise. She was doing arm circles.

Some little tart just blew me a kiss.

Can you text with an English accent?

1. Tinsel.

I’ll admit it. People have their reasons for hating tinsel. Tinsel is messy. It gets tangled in the tree branches and on the carpet. Static cling can cause it to stick to anything and anyone who gets too close to the tree. But even for all its faults, tinsel is the single most amazing Christmas decoration in history. I have loved those mesmerizing silver and gold metallic plastic strips since I was a little kid. A tree just doesn’t seem “finished” without a healthy serving of those sparkly strands. I can’t help myself. Something about tinsel gets into my brain and stimulates my dopamine receptors.

I always knew tinsel was retro. (The tinsel from the 1950s was made from strands of real silver and lead.) But, I was surprised to find out tinsel has actually been around since the 1600s in Germany. My only hope is that tinsel will make a comeback, because it gets harder to find every year.

Awesome.

2. Peppermint Mocha.

Espresso + milk + mocha + peppermint? Nasty, right? I knew about peppermint mochas for about a year before I gathered enough courage to try one. I cringe to think of that entire year I wasted when I could have been experiencing the pure joy of Christmas in a cup! Whoa, baby.

There is really no way to describe the glory that is a peppermint mocha, but I’ll try. Remember that feeling you got when you were five years old and you woke up early Christmas morning to the sight of an orgasmic heap of colorful, sparkling presents under the tree waiting to be torn into with the ferocity of a hungry velociraptor? Your heart felt like it was filling up with unicorns and glitter. You suddenly had a strange sense of calm and clarity. It was a perfect moment of anticipation. That’s how I feel during the time between placing my order and my first sip of a peppermint mocha.

Yeeeaahh buddy. (Bowl of chocolate chunks not included.)

3. Giving Back.

Well, I already described the peppermint mocha feeling similar to an orgasmic velociraptor gift heap. It would be hard to top that feeling. But giving to others feels almost as freaking awesome.

Giving back could mean anything – from tossing some spare change into the godawful bell ringer’s red kettle – to volunteering. Donate some canned goods, serve a meal to the homeless or simply write a check. Having worked for a few nonprofits, I’ve learned that forking over cash is usually the favored venue of support.

Whatever you decide to do will give you that smug satisfaction you deserve. It feels good to give. And it feels good to let others know you gave. We’re taught to be humble, and I agree with that. But, bragging can be a positive thing. It encourages and reminds others to give back too. It reinforces the positive feeling you got when you made the donation in the first place. It’s not selfish to feel good about helping others. (In fact, it would be a bad sign if donating made you feel sad or angry inside.) After all, people don’t give because they have to. They give because on some level it makes them feel good.

Just make sure the charity you choose is reputable. And most importantly, don’t let that crazy bitch Sally Struthers near your money.

1. Egg Nog.

You are gross and I hate you.

For a moment, let’s set aside the fact that egg nog tastes like sugary snot. Even if you have some sort of malfunction in your taste buds that would lead you to think egg nog is palatable, there is something terrifying about what egg nog actually is. Basically, take the reproductive bodily fluids of not one but two separate animals, mix them together with a dash of sugar and nutmeg – voila!

I can understand why the British and the colonial Americans enjoyed it back in the 1700s. Snackfoods weren’t invented yet. But come on. These people also believed in “bleeding” with leeches to cure the body of ailments. Do we really want to trust their culinary expertise?

This looks like more fun than drinking a glass of egg nog.

Ok, now, getting back to the flavor.

Egg nog tastes like shit.

2. Santa Baby.

Santa's little hooker.

Where do I even begin with this song? Female infantilization. Excessive materialism. That annoying nasal voice used in every rendition. I can’t believe this trite 1953 song is still such a popular anthem in 2011. Are women still wishing for a man to buy them pretty things and propose?

Santa, baby, I have a job.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised so many women love this song. As a gender, we’re regressing in many ways. I observed the sad reality of the “princess effect” during my recent vacation in DisneyWorld where I forced myself to smile sweetly instead of punching the staff member at the entrance for calling me “princess.” However, even I have to admit seeing my two-year-old niece go batshit crazy at the sight of the tiara-wearing, glitter-laden nitwits was simultaneously depressing and adorable.

I wish a man would help me understand.

Is it weird that I haven't taken this off since we got back?

3. Bell Ringers.

I see you. You have a big, fat red kettle. It’s impossible to miss. I don’t need the high-pitched, piercing clang of a bell destroying by eardrums from the inside out. Any other time of year, we’re taught to run away from a stranger standing outside playing percussion instrument badly.

My brain hurts.

Also, I met a few bell ringers during my seven-year stint in a grocery store florist. Two bell ringers stand out in my mind:

1) Once, when I was in the bathroom, an old lady bell ringer sat in a bathroom stall next to me doing something really foul whilst narrating a graphic play-by-play of what was happening and providing the background info on the softshell crabs she had eaten the night before. Also, she had a clear plastic backpack.

2) The next year, another bell ringer – presumably on her break – stopped by my department and started chatting me up. For some reason she felt compelled to describe how her boyfriend had just left her for a fat woman with spider veins and cellulite legs. She described how disgusting it was to imagine them having sex while I tried not to light my face on fire. I still don’t know why she chose me. I must have a very empathetic look.

One more thing. Why are you still collecting change in a bucket? Do they still make coins in 2011? Don’t worry, if I travel back to 1995 and happen to be carrying cash with me, I will toss you a couple of bucks. Until then, I’ll send a check. Oh, I almost forgot, I don’t even write checks anymore. The only person I write checks to is my Avon lady. I think I’ll stick to online donations after all.

Lest you think I’m a Scrooge, keep in mind I’m not criticizing the Salvation Army – just the bell ringers. The Salvation Army does wonderful work, and you can support the cause (and avoid a creepy bell ringer) by donating here.

And stay tuned for my next two posts: The 3 Most Underrated (But Awesome) Holiday Traditions, and A Tale of Two Christmas Cards, coming later this week…

Based on the responses, it seems many people are still not “getting it” when it comes to gym etiquette. So here are my top 6 etiquette pet peeves.

1. The Grunter. This one is so cliche I considered leaving it off the list, but it really deserves to be here. We have all heard that one guy who grunts and groans as loudly as he possibly can as he lifts weights. He makes a simple bicep curl sounds as painful as getting your foot caught in a meat grinder. Not only is he annoying, but he also scares me. I’m legitimately concerned that he will push so hard that his eyeballs pop out of their sockets. I don’t want to be there when that happens.

Doesn't that hurt?

2. The Professional. This guy doesn’t work at the gym. However, he does feel the need to advise you. If I’m not paying you to show me what to do, I don’t want you pointing out my improper form. In any other situation, you wouldn’t approach a stranger to tell them how badly they are screwing up or that they should be doing better. So, why is it okay to do this in a gym setting?

3. The Stinkbomb. Sweaty, foul, body odor. Treadmill farts. Belching. Once again, we have people who think the rules of common courtesy do not apply at the gym. It is not okay to fart on the treadmill next to me repeatedly. You are not being sly about anything. It smells. Really bad. And just because you are at a gym, getting sweaty, doesn’t mean you should abandon personal hygiene. Double up on that deodorant, bro.

Apparently this guy is a member at my gym.

4. The Dirty Harry. Those spray bottles of sanitizer and paper towel dispenser are there for a reason. That sweaty buttprint you left on the bench is not attractive. Spray, wipe, repeat.

5. The Sidler. Ever heard of a buffer? If there is a row of ten stairclimbers, and I’m the only one using one, it is not proper etiquette to choose the machine directly next to mine. You do not need to be all up in my grill unless the gym is crowded and other machines are taken.

You're getting sweat on me.

6. The Skins. If you are running on the beach, mowing your lawn or playing street basketball, being shirtless is totally appropriate. If you are at Gold’s Gym, indoors, among other patrons, please put your shirt on. There are a couple of reasons for this. First and foremost, clothing provides a barrier (even if only a psychological one) between your sweaty, germy skin and the machines you’re sitting or laying on. I feel more comfortable knowing I’m not sitting in someone else’s back sweat. Secondly, I’d rather not see you shirtless.

To be quite frank, ma’am, your boob job is distracting. I can tell you probably went for the discount job. Your nipples are facing different directions. It’s just not a good look. I know you think it looks sexy, but we are not staring because we find them attractive. We are staring with the same curiosity with which one watches a dog humping its favorite chew toy. It’s an oddity.

And sir, I know you think your tribal tattoo makes you unique, but it only makes you look like every other gym Grunter out there.

If you enjoyed this post, read more about my misadventures at Gold’s Gym…

I had the same picture on my Trapper Keeper in 1994.

Believe it or not, this is the second time I have seen this Jeep.

I saw it a few weeks ago and wasn’t able to snap a picture fast enough. The other day, I caught a glimpse of those creepy Flipper bastards again and had the chance to snap a few pics. In case you can’t make it out, that’s a custom dolphin window film. And a dolphin license plate frame. And a dolphin magnet.

At first, I thought it had to be some sort of aquatic-themed business. Alas, I pulled up alongside it. Nope. Just a woman who thinks she’s Lisa Frank.

Ma’am, your car looks ridiculous.

Today, some women in my office were talking about a new nail salon and I mentioned that I will never get a manicure or pedicure from a salon ever again. This is why. Ever seen a salon worker disinfect a foot bath? Sure. Did she let the disinfectant sit on the surface for 10 minutes and run the spa jets like the EPA recommends? Probably not. Oh yeah, and did I mention bacteria can live inside of the jets of that foot bath? So, the next time that thing is turned on, you get staph sprayed all over your barking dogs. And you thought those bunions were the most disgusting thing on your feet. Bacterial infections? Necrotizing fasciitis? Skin ulcers? No, thank you.

This is the kind of shit that keeps me awake at night.

I’ve written about the top five things that scare me before. Most of them – creepily enough – were related to babies in some way. But that is a psychoanalysis for another post. Today, I share with you, my top four germophobias. We’ve already been through nail salons. Here’s three more.

1. Library Books

What could be wrong with sharing the joy of reading with your community? How about the 732 people who fondled the pages of that book before you did? Ever see an odd stain on a library book page and wonder what it is? For your own safety, from now on, just imagine that unidentified smudge is the bodily fluids of a person infected with SARS.

Because it probably is.

Whenever I look at a library book, I always picture the person who borrowed it before me read the entire thing while perched on his toilet, using boogers as bookmarks along the way.

and the rest of them just don't wear pants

And don’t even get me started on the keyboards of the library computers…

2. Community Nuts

You’re sitting at the bar and the bowl of nuts is sitting there looking like a delicacy. What is it about bars that makes people look at a bowl of public snacks like it’s some sort of delicacy? Oh yeah. Booze. No sober person would ever eat snacks that had been fingered by the grubby, unwashed hands of fellow bar rats.

But what about sharing a can of your own nuts? To me, this is just as bad as sharing nuts with countless strangers. Here’s why. Next time you have a can of nuts, grab a pinch-full and place ‘em in your mouth. Now, go through this in slow motion. First, when you picked up the nuts, a few of them slipped out of your fingers and back into the can. Germs. Then, when you put them in your mouth, you touched your lip with your fingers. More germs. Now, you go back for more nuts with your double-germy fingers. We’ll refer to these germs as “snackwash” because they fall out of your hand and back into the community bowl – much like backwash flows back into a shared beverage. My can of nuts has now become a petri dish. I pop the lid on and toss the rest of the nuts in the trash when you are gone.

cesspool

In case you’re wondering, no, I do not feel the same way about other snacks such as a bag of chips. That’s because chips are grippable, and it is less likely to result in a lot of snackwash. Also, you don’t “dip” your fingers into the center of the container to pinch out your serving. Otherwise you’d crush the rest of the chips.

Obvi.

3. Gasket Up

A lot of women fear toilet seats. It’s a legitimate concern. That’s why the “hover” technique has become the friend of women far and wide. Everyone knows it’s the best way to use a public restroom without catching a disease.

However, short legs don’t make it possible to squat without actually touching porcelain. That’s where the gasket comes in. I’ve always been one to completely cover the toilet seat with paper before sitting down. This technique is referred to as the gasket. And it has saved me from countless venereal diseases throughout the years.

not the worst bathroom I've seen

It was only two and a half years earlier that Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris massacred 12 classmates and a teacher in one of the worst school shooting rampages in history. That day changed the lives of not only the students at Columbine High School, but of every teenager in the country. Despite being hundreds of miles away – in my safe parochial school – I was just like those kids. As a freshman in high school, this was the first time I had ever experienced a tragedy I could relate to in a personal way. It was the first time something I heard about on the news made me cry. I look back on that day and realize it was the day I knew I was at an age where my peers were capable of doing violent, despicable things – the kind of things adults did. When I really reflect on it, I realize my most defining years were filled with violence.

The rest of September 11 was spent absorbing whatever information we could. The principal had instructed teachers and students to focus on their studies instead of watching the news. The library and computer labs were filled with students huddled around computers gathering what they could from news websites. The school’s pay phone was occupied the entire day. Students snuck into bathroom stalls with cell phones to make clandestine calls to worried parents between classes. A few parents picked their daughters up from school.

That night we spent hours on the phone recapping what we’d seen and sharing the rumors we had heard. Just a few days prior, I didn’t even know what terrorism was. Now, I heard the terrorists were targeting national monuments and the Gateway Arch could be next. In the days that followed the attacks, my classmates learned about the Taliban. I was already familiar with the Taliban because I had written a research paper about Afghan women during my junior year. But this attack had nothing to do with burquas.

When I was nine, my elementary school had a collection for something called the “Golf War.” As a third grader I thought it was exciting to be making care packages to send to the desert. Just five years later, I was learning what terrorism was. Less than a month after that, the US was at war with Afghanistan. It was only two more years before we were back in the Gulf at war with Iraq.

These moments were important in my life, just like the assassination of JFK was important to my parents, and the Pearl Harbor attack was to theirs. The tenth anniversary of the September 11 attacks has me reflecting on what that day has meant in my life. I think it is important to remember the moments that shape your life. I don’t know if my generation has seen more violence than those before us, but I hope the next generation doesn’t experience as much.

She's a sexy beast.

2. I learned about some creepy creatures.

Should I be more worried about this snake...or the coyote that ate it?

I named this little critter Charlotte.

3. I learned what a white trash U-Haul looks like.

Yep. That looks secure.

Got room for another mattress?

If I’m going to live in rural Missouri, I need to start getting used to sights like this. These are my people now.