A Sign It's Good Day

I had a Jerry Maguire moment today. No, not the "SHOW ME THE MONEY" moment you all are thinking of, but a different one. The clip below should explain it pretty good.



Don't you just hate when that happens? When you're so excited you want to shout it to the world but the next best thing is singing at the top of your lungs. So instead, you have to hunt down an awesome song to sing to and it's then and there that every radio station seems to be collectively running their "sh*tty song of the hour" promotion. One of my favorite songs to sing to? 500 miles, by The Proclaimers. I love the "Da Da Da Da (Da Da Da Da) Da Da Da Da (Da Da Da Da)  Da Undela Undela Undela la la la" part. And I'm sure that looks wierd but if you know the song you'll get it. And because I also love HIMYM I'll help you out:

And why was I so happy? I have no idea. I was on my way home from the gym, had gotten in a pretty impressive workout, and it smelled like fall outside. Also, I've been working a lot on my new travel/food blog and it's finally starting to come around. Plus I've also heard back from a few writing offers too, so I guess I take that back. I do know what I was having a Jerry Maguire moment:

Because I was having an effin' good day, that's why.

             

Shameless Plug

Well just a little update to let everyone know I'll be splitting my blogging time from now on. I'm glad to say I get to be a regular part of the blog associated with the site www.thegoodlifeoncampus.com!

Now typically, when I am asked to blog on behalf of a service or product I run for the hills. Unless, that is, two conditions are present: 1.) I agree with with the premise of the service or product (no one's trying to rip anyone else off or anything), and 2.) I can give my honest opinion. I'm not going to write about how "awesome" a product is if I just threw it out in the front yard and lit it on fire.

Which is why I can safely say I'm excited to be a part of this project. The goal of the blog (http://thegoodlifeoncampus.tumblr.com) is to help students get the most out of their college experience, and what's the best way to do that? By being yourself! The online store is full of quirky, unique dorm decorations, as well as hilarious toys and trinkets (like light graffiti). I support that. College is about finding yourself and expressing yourself, so I say the more personal touches the better!

Lesson 16: "Interesting" People Are Lame

Let's get one thing straight here; the dictionary defines the word 'interesting' as, "Arousing curiosity, attracting or holding attention or provoking thought." The media's definition?

Well, not that. Contrary to the brainwashed opinion of the general public, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (or New Jersey, New York, Atlanta, Orange County, Washington D.C., Miami, Fargo, or wherever), are not interesting. Dramatic maybe, but interesting? No.

To me, the definition of an interesting person is someone who has learned life lessons the hard way, by experiencing them. Someone with a passion for life and the guts to pursue it. A story that starts with, "Well I totally wanted those pair of shoes but then my friend was like, 'Those are hideous,' and I was like, 'Ya, but I want them' and she was like, 'My tongue itches' and I was like,'Your tongue is fat...' " really isn't going to peak my interest for too long.

One person who is interesting? My mom. She got married when she was 16 and moved to Montana where she trained horses for a living. My mom's been a florist, a waitress, a dog groomer, a single mother, a teacher, a cook, and still owns her own ice cream truck. She was married twice and divorced twice (once to a diagnosed psychopath for 20 years), but she's still never lost her innate warmth and sense of humor. She's always up for anything and she never takes life too seriously. My mom has been through life's twists and turns. She's an interesting person.

Another of my favorites, of which I'm not as obviously biased, is an 86 year old man with oversized ears and icey blue eyes. For the sake of confidentiality, we'll call him Jack.

Jack and I met when he was admitted to the psychiatric hospital during one of my nightshifts. Even though he was in the early stages of Alzheimer's, at 6'1" he still had an undeniable presence. One day, while handing him a cup of water, he punched me in the side, bringing me to my knees. After taking some time to gather my thoughts (and resisting the urge to give him a swift kick in the shin), I clumsily made my way to the nurses station positive he'd cracked one of my right ribs. I was informed, however, that I should've been more careful. Had I been given a more accurate report, I would've learned that, back in the day, Jack had been a professional boxer known for his killer left hook. Oh really...

Turns out, Jack had been more than a professional boxer. He'd first been a professional baseball player until he was drafted for WWII. Then, while he was in the Navy, he took up boxing. After the war, he went pro (where he met his wife, who was also a professional boxer). His father, mother, and two brothers had all been musicians (violin, cello, saxophone, and piano). According to his wife, Jack himself played a mean fiddle, which he showed when his entire family (among others) performed for president Truman in 1950.

And he was funny. His wit was the inappropriate kind I find so hilarious. Once, when one of his sons visited:

Jack: "Who the hell are you?"
John: "Dad, it's me, John."
Jack: "No, I know my son John, and you're not him. For God's sake man, you have breasts."
John: "Well, you're going blind. And besides, maybe I like them."
Jack: "I can see why. You look good in a 'B' cup."

He also gave me my boyfriend's all-time favorite quote:

Me: "So what did you like more, boxing or baseball?"
Jack: "Baseball, always baseball. A real ball player never likes anything more than baseball. Hell when he can't play anymore he coaches, and when he can't coach anymore he just hangs around and rakes the field. A dirt diamond is the best place on earth."

He told me stories of the games he played in, the crowds he boxed for and the people he fought alongside in battle. He described places he'd been, the foods he'd eaten, the first time he laid eyes on his wife, and the feel of a fiddle that had been handcrafted just for him. He told me of the night he got drunk in an Irish pub and, "...won a fight over a lass that turned out to be a fella." Another time, he won $6,400 on a dog race only to lose it all in a poker game with Doyle Brunson.

Listening to him tell stories, just as listening to my mother tell stories, is an adventure in itself. People like these two, you see, are interesting. The media, however, would probably classify both Jack and my mother as "boring."

So strange that the opinions of pop tarts and reality stars are valued over those who have real life experiences. I know I'll never see the paparazzi outside my mom's house, questioning her about the latest trends in pantsuits, but I'll take her stories over a fake-baked camera-hungry bimbo any day. Real people have been through real struggles and real triumphs, and the emotions that come with those experiences cannot be scripted.

Someday, I hope to be an interesting person myself. Or better yet, I hope to be a "boring" one. "Interesting" people are lame, it's the "boring" ones that are having all the fun.

Who are your favorite "boring" people?

9/11 A Different Perspective

When I first started blogging, my boyfriend told me, "I can't wait until you get your first hater comment. Then you'll really know you've made it." He was joking, of course, but it's true. Posting what the vast majority of people already think is essentially playing it safe. No fresh perspective, no thought-provoking dialogue to trigger a novel viewpoint in a new (or familiar) reader.

Well having said that, it should also be perfectly clear that I have no intention of offending anyone through my writing, and if this post seems offensive, in any way, I apologize ahead of time.

On September 11, 2001, a group of 19 militant extremists took the fate of innocent people into their hands, resulting in what is generally now referred to as "The Terrorist Attacks". For those who were there, on site witnessing the pandamonium first hand, I can't even begin to imagine the feelings of chaos and helplessness. The rest of us, however, stayed glued to our televions sets, radios and phones. We assumed the uniform pose of confusion and disbelief; our hands covering our mouths and our bodies huddled together with family, friends, or complete strangers. We watched, stunned and united in the terror of the events unfolding before us. Soon the twin towers fell, and along with them our seemingly impermeable sense of security.

I'm sure everyone has their own recollection of where they were and what they were doing when the planes hit. Personally, I was 16, just waking up to go to school. My radio alarm went off, and in my sleepy haze I wondered into the living room and informed my mom of the radio claims that a plane had just crashed into the Pentagon. She inhaled sharply, and we turned on the television. We stared at the destruction; speechless.

At school I joined my classmates as we went from class to class, our eyes fixed on every television. Ironically, the only teacher that turned it off was my U.S. History teacher, so we could "get some work done".

This event has no doubt caused unimaginable grief and despair to a vast number of people. In some way, whether large or smalle, we were all affected. Some were killed or injured and some had family or friends who were killed or injured. Many still endure the PTSD that often follows a traumatic event, not to mention the lives that were lost or forever changed by the ensuing war.

This is all irrefutable, and by no means do I intend to make the degree of these peoples' suffering seem any less severe than it was (and still is). My point is this: we, the United States, are the fortunate ones.

Attacks like these occur daily, if not hourly, in some countries. Yet in the United States, they are reason for a national holiday. We have one day a year, where we remember the violence and fear of that one other particular day 10 years ago. In some countries, (like the very countries we are currently at war with), they don't have time to stop and remember. To recollect where they were and what they were doing "that one time" when terrorists attacked their home. In some countries, "that one time" doesn't exist. Violence, destruction and terror is their past, present, and future.

How fortunate am I, that I don't live in a country like Somalia, the generally thought to be most corrupt country in the world? Or Chad, where you are most likely to die as a child? I don't live in a state of constant pain, corruption and fear. I don't have to worry about a renegade lighting my house on fire, being murdered for showing too much of my wrists, or the possibility of my future child being kidnapped. I don't have to worry about my future son being turned into a soldier of war at 9 years old or my niece being used as a sex slave.

What happened was an incredibly cruel moment in my country's history, but when I think of it, I try to think of all that I am fortunate for now. I know death, violence and destruction still occur in places in America, but they do not consistently occur on the scale we witnessed that day.

The 9/11 attacks have taught me to be grateful for the country I currently live in. Grateful that similar attacks do not happen here on a daily basis, grateful that we have the technology to be able to broadcast and inform others throughout the nation. Above all, I'm grateful that we have the means to rebuild, and grateful that I am here, in my nice warm bed, healthy, safe, and blogging.

How did 9/11 affect you?