The alphabet? That’s like, literally 26 letters, right? Oh, whatever…

As a communication specialist and writer in general, it’s only natural that the ABCs consume my life. Some days I struggle over letters (granted, usually while playing Words With Friends), while other times I form them into words, sentences and paragraphs almost effortlessly. Almost. Wine helps.

Most days, I arrange these characters into monotonous corporate stories about new miscellaneous billing processes or HR’s latest exercise program. I’m on the edge of my seat, too. On good days I’m here, writing posts and desperately attempting to keep my “real job” at bay, Little Engine style.

“Yes, I’ll take two please.” “Ma’am, you have to win the award, you can’t just..” “..wrap ‘em up!”

On great days, I am presented with the ABC Award for Awesome Blog Content (guess I’m not quite at amazing, huh?). What was just a normal Tuesday for you last week was that great day for me!

Could it be, I thought, that this blog, formerly a means of personal escape, is becoming something of substance for others, as essential as eating or breathing?  (Let a girl dream!) Meanwhile, I’m sure my parents were somewhere thinking, Oh, thank GOD she’s actually sticking with something for once. Not like that time she took up tumbling…or piano…or babysitting.

Honestly, why are kids so sticky all the time?! It’s not right.

So suddenly, monumental value has once again sprung from those mere 26 letters, alongside more friendships and appreciation than I could have ever imagined receiving. For that – and for giving me this award – I thank ya, Miss MJ, Nonstepmom!

If I could ruin this award with one thing – and I will – isn’t the word “awesome” one of the most overused words in today’s society? I’m thinking it’s right up there with “whatever,” “literally,” or “you know,” but then again, you know, what do I know?

Anyway, it’s whatever. I dunno.

As the rules of this award are a little ambiguous to me, I’ll proceed to the next step in the award process – to come up with an adjective that describes me for every letter of the alphabet. 

He’s so good at magic that he disappeared completely from every television network!

AWOL: In college, my nickname was Houdini because I’d leave or show up super late to events and parties on a whim. Your move, Criss Angel.
Blunt: I will tell you the honest truth, but only if you promise to hold a grudge against me for the next month or two. There, that’s nice.
Cheesy: Last week, I slow danced with Clayton in the middle of a bar called Mister Toads. During karaoke. We’re uber romantic.
Dependable: I don’t know when this one happened. It just sort of snuck up on me, like suddenly having to pee when you’re 90.
Empathetic: I cry at tampon commercials. “Look, now she can hike and camp and bike!” *Wild applause*
Feisty: Chances are, I’m about to form tackle you. Out of nowhere. Stop looking behind you like you know when it’s coming.
Great: As in, “The Great Cassie.” I really think this could catch on.
Hopeful: A synonym of “hopeful” is “buoyant.” So, this is a double whammy, as now I apparently double as a floatation device. No, I will not fly with you “just in case.”
Idealistic: I straighten framed artwork in the hallways at work when no one is looking.
Jazzy: I went to a jazz club once. Didn’t hate it.
Klutzy: I’m capable of tripping while standing still. 
Lucky: I just haven’t won Quick 7s because it’s not my TIME to yet. That’s all.
Meticulous: I overthink everything. EVERYTHING. Well, maybe everything is too all-encompassing. Most things? I definitely overthink some things but….

Yearn: it’s like yarn, only cats don’t tear you to pieces, your lover being at sea for 10 years does.

Nostalgic: I’ve yearned a day or two in my time, sure.
Open-minded:  Except if you like bad music. Or orange-flavored candies. Oh, or clogs. Unless you’re Dutch, then you get a free pass. Look, we’re compromising!
Playful: Pillow/blanket fort playful. Yes, you may come over. But call your mom first to make sure it’s ok.
Quixotic:  I may also be a realist, but the best part about being quixotic is I can be both. And that, my friends, is what we call a win-win.
Realistic: Jennifer Aniston will never get married. Boom. See what I did there?
Sincere: I am, I swear!
Tough: But not in a “Built Ford Tough” kinda way, more like in a “Brave Little Toaster” kinda way.
Uncontrollable: Temper tantrums upon not getting my way at the supermarket are not beneath me.
Vivacious: Mostly on Mondays, before the full workweek and after work errands kill my spirit.
White: Exemplified in the way I dance.
Xylophonic: With just a hint of pitchiness.
Yare: Like the fanciest of boats.
Zesty: As in, not in need of any orange or lemon zest, cuz I’ve got my own flava.

Finally, I must recognize five fellow bloggers who I believe have awesome blog content. But hell, you know what? I’m suddenly feeling zesty, so let’s do seven.

1. Bridgesburning – Word-o-wisdom – now 50 percent off!
2. LiketheHours – I guarantee you’ll liketheblog (that was bad; I’m sorry)
3. KayJai – She’s Canadian, but we’ll let it slide this time
4. Silva Gang – She writes about cats, and I like cats, and you should too!
5. Edrevets – Where Snotting Black isn’t cause for a doctor visit, probably
6. PithyPants – Dude. Those pants are pithy as efffff.
7. Maloquacious – Feel good posts, plus, poems – she’s got ‘em!

Have a lovely weekend, everyone! Happy Friday!

How much I love pie charts

This post is a response to my friend, Brandon’s, request for a pie chart on how much I love pie charts. Oddly redundant, yet, OMG let’s start already; I’m so excited!

Espress-oooh, shit! Oncoming traffic!

It’s all over the news this week – a newly invented portable espresso machine that plugs into your car’s cigarette lighter (Ah, the irony of replacing one bad habit with another). Although it’s not yet being sold in the U.S., it’s (surprise, surprise) making strides in Europe and a travel-sized model is available online for all those outdoor activities in which premium espresso is essential. Camping. Skiing. Whitewater rafting.

"Who's got the espresso machine? Pete? Pete! Espresso me!" (Image: adventuredrop.com)

Finally, a mug full of scalding liquid available instantaneously right when you need it - in the middle of a rigorous mountain biking session! Don’t worry, don’t worry – it comes with two small napkins. As if anyone would be clumsy enough to spill while skydiving. Rookies, all of ya!

To those outdoor enthusiasts who can’t go without the sauce for a weekend or even a few hours: I think you’re missing the point.

It’s called the rugged outdoors. Espresso doesn’t exactly scream “I’m one with wilderness!” The most premium thing about any of the above activities is the social acceptability of peeing wherever and on whatever you choose.

If you read the article, you’ll see it’s really quite simple to set up the machine in your car. Just a few steps and you’ll be driving recklessly on the road during all of them! I mean, in no time!

1. Locate thermos.
2. Wash thermos from last time you used it. (JK. Like you’ll be alive to use it more than once)
3. Pour water into thermos.
4. Get into car.
5. Place pod over thermos.
6. Screw on top of thermos.
7. Hit “on” button.
8. Wait two minutes.
9. Take thermos out of machine.
10. Pour espresso into tiny cup without lid.
11. Replace thermos.
12. All while driving!!

Yeah, I can see how this would be so much quicker than making it yourself at home. God forbid you multitask while you’re getting ready for work, or drive through a Starbucks on your way. It’s not like they’re hard to find or there’s only one in town.

"But dad - I'm not tall enough to see the road!" "Just steer a few moments longer, Timmy. Daddy needs his caffeine fix." (Image: delish.com)

Well. Unless you live in my town. But even then, there’s not a line because – Nebraska!

My favorite part about this whole article is the image delish.com decided to include. It’s not someone in the passenger seat safely pouring espresso for the person, oh say, driving the car. That would just be stupid! Rather, the image shows a man using both hands to pour it himself. Eyes on the prize, am I right? But there’s a catch! He appears to be driving, too!

Impressive.

It could be he’s incredibly gifted at driving with his knees, or he has his five-year-old holding the wheel while he grabs a cup of joe. Maybe he’s at a stop light or better yet, parked somewhere. (My bet is on top of another car he just collided with)

So I’ll buy it. He’s parked. And this is saving time how again?

At least if you’re still alive after pouring the espresso, you can keep one hand on the wheel as the next adventure of trying not to spill the tiny mug begins. Because why on earth would a portable espresso machine come with a cup holder? Cars normally drive so smoothly.

Are you supposed to shot the steaming liquid?

With the inclusion of two spillage napkins, I can only conclude that Handpresso must consider spilling not only inevitable, but somehow acceptable. Man, this espresso is good, and the upside is that it’s going to smell like espresso in my car forever because espresso has spilled into the backseat, onto the floor mats, and it’s even on my suit just in time for the big presentation. Yay, espresso!

A person would reaaaaally have to enjoy espresso. Like, more than your life, which is valued at $199.99, by the way. The portable espresso machine, however?

Priceless.

Sure, there will be some skeptics. “How is this in any way a good idea?” they’ll ask.

“Keeps ‘em awake! Less accidents!” Handpresso advocates will gush, clearly too loaded on caffeine to bother with complete sentences.

According to the article, you’ll never fall asleep while driving again. I believe it! Cuz you’ll be too busy. Being dead.

"Aw, are the waser wights getting in your wyes?" "Yes! Trying to drive here!" "...pussy." (Image: lazercraze.com)

I’ve taken the liberty to get the ball rolling on some other car-friendly, portable essentials I think could really change the course of present day driving (literally):

1. Laser tag
2. Shower
3. A fully stocked bar
4. Shooting range
5. Hot plate

Kiss the cook (It’s me! Kiss me!)

I recently acquired a new hobby. I take food items and mix, bake, grill, chill, slice and dice them, (all sans a Slap Chop, mind you) transforming them into delicious other food items. Eggs become omelets! Celery becomes ants on a log! Hamburger becomes…hamburgers! Food is always better plural.

Consider making ants on a log for that next fancy dinner party.

How the media hasn’t blown this fad outta portion yet, I don’t know. (Food jokes!)

I’ve decided to call this newfangled activity “cooking” (let me have this), and it’s great because it inevitably leads to om-nom-noming. Not to mention that the gorgeous glow I get upon devouring half a pound of turkey bacon in my favorite breakfast quiche is almost akin to exercising. Almost.

I’m not sure exactly what prompted my passion for the culinary arts except that whenever Clay and I have a free evening, it always seems to turn into an Iron Chef episode. Think more jammies and less narration. For awhile, we stopped going out on Fridays at all. That was scary. Then there was our last shopping trip to Wal-Mart:

Clayton (adamantly): “We need a spatula!”
Me (thrilled): “They come in different colors! I want purple! No, red! Green!”
Clayton (suddenly alarmed): “Ea-sy…”
Me (instantly out of control): “We also need a can opener! Tongs? An egg thing-a-ma-jig!? Spaghetti strainer!!”
Clayton (cautiously): “Ok, Cass. One at a time. Can openers appear to come in all different prices and sizes here. Look, this one has a grippy rubber handle.”
Me: Overwhelmed silence and reverence

I also can’t leave out all the Hy-Vee trips where a certain cart boy inevitably greets us with a demanding “Ladies first!” every time we approach the entrance. On cue, Clay and I rowdily push one another out of the way to get inside first, running off of love’s purest, truest and most gentle adrenaline (him - testosterone; me -feminism). This irritates the cart boy.

Once inside, we freeze instantly in our tracks, always stunned by the life-sized cardboard cutout of Ellen DeGeneres—whoops, that’s Curtis Stone.

It's uncanny! It's...not right...

Then, onto fruits and veggies. We don’t make it out of the produce section for a good 15 to 20 minutes, and trips that should take half an hour become twice as long as I explore new ingredients with the tenacity of a kid at an ice cream parlor. I stop investigating the mangoes, white asparagus and herbs only when I see Clay taking a trip of his own to frown town.

Our cart slowly becomes filled with random ingredients we’ll most likely hate – papaya and Korean pear – and of course, wine. You know, for the cooking. We exit the store past a now wordless cart boy, satisfied until the next time we get a food fetish.

One time we went to Hy-Vee four days out of the week.

Once back in the kitchen, I immediately take over as sous chef because I excel at vital tasks like  pouring wine, washing produce because men consider dirt just another seasoning, and of course, stirring. Nothing makes you feel more important than having yourself a good stir. It’s also a great way to look busy in an effort to avoid cutting onions. (For the love of God, someone teach me already)

The more we cook, the more we like to think our tastes become increasingly refined. Our meals consist of seafood more often than not, and it’s a must that red or white wine appear on the list of ingredients. And, although our dishes only call for a ½ cup of it or less, we feel obligated to finish the bottle because we hate waste. Life is so hard sometimes.
I keep with the evening’s theme of pure sophistication and class by setting the coffee table in front of the TV with paper towels, covering our water glasses with coasters to ensure Chloe doesn’t dunk her head into them. As I do, I can’t help but think how wonderful it is to have a hobby where I’m constantly learning and trying new things. It’s my special time alone with Clayton, where we bond over the entire process of creating and eating a meal we made ourselves — garlicky hands, burnt pancakes, “natural turkey casing” and all.

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My patooty won me an award. Finally.

Happy Friday, fellow bloggers! And a happy week it’s been, too, as I was recently the proud recipient of…

…well, shoot, let’s do this properly. Altogether: mouths agape! Eyes widened! Breath bated! And, try bristling a little with curiosity.  

I can tell you’re into this now. Except, maybe bristle just a BIT more. It’s honestly so sweet of you, really. Don’t be afraid to go completely bug-eyed. Think Katy Perry, not Renee Zellweger.

I think we’re ready. So, without further ado, I’ve won…

Sure it's exciting, but can we do something about all the...pink?

The Glitter E. Yaynus Award.

Say it loud! Say it proud! Say it fast and then gasp in horror upon finally realizing what it sounds like a mere five days after receiving it! (Hey, I get it! I GET it! Wow, that is so undignified. Thinks about it a little longer. Then…giggles. Giggles more.)

So anyway, I spent way too long trying to figure out what the letter “E” stood for before coming to that realization. Glitter? Sure – I’m a girl. All my makeup and lotion contain glitter. (Don’t worry about the lighting, nightclub, it’s the weekend and your human disco ball is on its way!) Yaynus? Like Festivus, why not? But the“E.” That stubborn “E.”

“E” is for epiphany.

I never expected to get to this point in my blogging career and yet – here we are! I don’t know how I can possibly go about reaching higher goals with my writing now. It’s quite likely I won’t be able to handle the pressure and will lock myself in my bedroom meticulously cleaning every key on my keyboard as an excuse to why I have writer’s block. All thanks to MJ, evil stepmom.

No, really. THANK YOU.

And that covers the thanking the nominator portion of the evening. We’re setting a good pace in this award shit show (hah) already. Feel free to sit back in your chairs now if you’d like. Bathroom breaks are still not allowed.

Well, you should have went before!

The next rule requires me to run across the highway blindfolded. That’s just ridiculous. Good thing I was in high school track and have an instinctive sense of direction. I can always tell where the ice cream is in a packed freezer.  Challenge accepted.

Aaaand…back! As it turns out, I am not as spry as previously thought. MJ, I’ll be sending my doctor bills your way. Thanks to you, I’ll never be able to dance atop a bar to Journey again. (Bummer)

Next, I must confess five things about me that make others want to kill me.

1. If you tell me a story that lasts longer than two minutes, I will indefinitely drift off and start planning my next meal. It’s always about my next meal. You say you’re worried about losing your job? In deciding between spaghetti and sushi, I think it’s obvious who has bigger problems at hand.

2. I’m about to win HGTV’s 2012 Dream Home. Hey, we can’t all win dream homes. But we can be good sports and send me housewarming gifts. *muffled coughing – SLAP CHOP – muffled coughing*

I'll never have to learn to properly cut onions - take that, society!

3. I will pull out in front of you in traffic. I’m late and you’re in my way. Since you’re obviously the one in the wrong, I’m betting you’ll slow down and all without flipping me the bird because at least you’re clearly ahead of me in line at Heaven’s Gate.

4. I take forever getting ready. Probably because I can never get all that glitter off.

5. I hate The Goonies. Ahhhh, it’s so boring! I can’t even get through the first half hour! Fine. Five minutes. Ok, opening credits – you got me. Can’t we just all sit down and watch The Sandlot together?

Moving right along. In accordance to the award rules, I must now list five things I’d be willing to stick up my patooty if forced to. Right. Nnnno! I will instead  list five reasons I am absolutely unable to abide by this rule, even if I wanted to. (I don’t)

1. I’m a lady.
2. Ladies simply don’t have the anatomy.
3. Or bowel movements.
4. And we certainly don’t toot. Ever. Fact.
5. No means no!

Know what else ladies don’t do?

Lastly, I must pass this (coveted) award to five deserving bloggers. Without further avail:

1. The Byronic Man – Because I have no reason to kill you. Yet.
2. Becoming Cliché – There’s no way to be cliché with tush topics - I checked.
   The Good Greatsby – Your responses will indefinitely coin the term “Good Greatsby!”among a shocked blogosphere.
   The Occasional Wine – Because redesigning a blog WITHOUT  glitter is just irresponsible.
   Japecake – Get out your baseball glove, because this award is flying straight outta left field.

Mother Earth not fooling anyone with age

Yesterday marked yet another momentous day for the universe as Mother Earth celebrated her 4.5-something billionth birthday. In turn, billions of people, whose population has grown in conjunction with Mother Earth’s mass in her seasoned age, showed up to congratulate her and show their appreciation on another year that the majority called “pretty OK.”

"What, this picture? Why, this picture was just taken last year." -Mother Earth, unconvincingly

“A perfect axis rotation of 23 hours, 56 minutes and 4.09 seconds?” one onlooker was heard commenting. “Yup. She’s definitely still got it.”

As well wishers fawned over Mother Earth with presents consisting heavily of asteroid shields, the solution to climate change and more ozone layers (you can never have enough), she graciously accepted all they had to offer. She did, however, pause in the gift opening to huffily blame the earthlings’ past climate change issues on the fact that she had been going through menopause for the last few years.

Tearing the festive paper from yet another gift, Mother Earth gasped in excitement before holding up a framed photograph featuring her posing dramatically with arms shielded, pretending to be swallowed up by a black hole in mock horror while on vacation in Andromeda.

“My husband, Father Time, thought it was in poor taste, but of course it’s hilarious,” she said, a starry look in her twinkling eyes. “Anyway, this will look lovely on my mantle. Thank you!”

"Yikes. I am really not good at keeping these alive..." -Mother Earth "We'll just cover their cage with a blanket. It'll be fine." - Father Time

After Mother Earth had unwrapped the last present – extinct male and female dodos – she put her hand to her heart, speechless with flattery. Finally she spoke, her eyes clouding over with a rainfall of tears.     

“Thanks to each one of you for making my, ahem…3 billionth birthday a time I will never forgot,” she said. “Especially with Father Time over there to remind me!”

With hushed whispers, the crowd mouthed the words “3 billionth” confusedly to one another. Meanwhile, Father Time acknowledged his shout-out with a tap on his watch, indicating her speech was getting a bit long for his taste and that it was time to wrap it up.

“And, 3…billion…years or not, my surface is still as young and smooth as a Galilean Moon,” she declared stubbornly to the guests. “Your Botox is my erosion and tectonic processes! It also probably doesn’t hurt that I’m made entirely of chemicals.”

“I don’t think everything has to revolve around me,” she finished, “but try telling that to my sun! So, thank you for today and please – enjoy some cake and ice cream.”

As the birthday cake was cut and pieces were passed around, Mother Earth put her arms around Father Time and tittered resignedly that the dessert was going to go straight to her circumference. He consoled her by affectionately squeezing her lower continents and telling her that her peaks were still just as perky as ever until a guest told them to get their own galaxy.

A novice would not be able to handle Mount Everest.

Taking it into the next room, Father Time then presented her with a pair of lustrous diamond earrings and a matching pendant necklace. Upon careful inspection, she accepted his gift with much joy (even though she had created them) and – being made from zircon, herself – told him that she knew he wouldn’t dare attempt to fool her with zirconium jewelry.   

“Even if you tried, I’m made of 34. 5 percent iron so I can still kick your intangible butt at my old age,” she pointed out. “Now tell me honestly – do I look 4.5 billion years old?”

“Not a day over 3 billion,” he replied back quickly. “Besides, you’re a young 4.5 billion.”

“I don’t know why anyone would want to acknowledge how old I’m getting anyway,” she retorted. “If I die, they all die!”

Because “Every Kiss Begins with Like” just doesn’t have the same ring

In fact, it literally doesn’t have a ring at all. Or a bracelet. Nope, not even diamond-studded earrings. Mutual like only verifies that you’re not completely socially inept.

Zing. (I’m sorry)

Ok, so you know that one Kay Jewelers commercial where you see it and want to die? Like, pronto?

Trick question. It’s all of them. Unfortunately, there isn’t a way to miraculously know when these commercials are about to air so you can dive for the channel changer and save yourself from the inhumanity. Funny – in the spirit of Christmas, we were able to foresee the coming of Christ to save us from our sins, but we’re still incapable of telling which block of television will air that bit of evil.

(All of ‘em)

If this book is solely about family, neckties OR eggs in/out of a nest, I'm going to feel severely gypped.

The commercials are the equivalent to a Danielle Steel novel, only with way more cardigans and way less steamy haystack scenes, and let’s get real – no one likes a PG-rated Danielle Steel. No one. What’s the point?

Perhaps it is a test. If we successfully watch the commercial in its entirety and HAVEN’T set our residence on fire (Automatically, the TV’s gotta go because it’s the vehicle spewing that malicious content over all your personal belongings, and so now THOSE are contaminated and in need of destroying, etc., etc.), eternal salvation will be ours.

The big guy’s probably up there thinking, Merry Christmas, humans. My gift to you – that of tolerance. It’s more likely that he’s up there chuckling, stroking his beard amusedly, thinking Ha! Peons…now where did I put that popcorn?

Original sin should have been reserved for the conception of all Kay commercials. I don’t think God was even prepared for what atrocities mankind was capable of creating. Unadulterated evil in the form of commercials selling steadfast love and devotion for hundreds of dollars? Check!

I haven’t even gotten to the engagement ring commercials yet.

Regardless, tis the season, but the incessant sighing and eye rolling is wearing me thin. Come on, women – based on this new McDonald’s commercial, do we really think our significant others are capable of eternal commitment, much less buying our Christmas present more than a few days before the 25th? Ronald – and society – says no!

So, for another month and a half, we are tasked with the chore of grinning and bearing these awful commercials, all the while violently hoping that when New Years is said and done, we will still have roofs over our heads. Good luck to you all.

Those with ambition and a passionate desire to prevail might consider turning the commercial into a drinking game. If you’re worried about being caught up in technicalities – not to fear. This game can be played by those ages 21 and up. Heck, I have no doubt that even your kids will want to join in after seeing this commercial.

*Shudder* They grow up so fast, don’t they?

Every time a woman looks up at a man with ooey gooey adoration so sweet you wonder where the world is going to find more sugar because it was all used up in the commercial?

Sickening, right? If I wanted to see an ACCURATE representation of a REAL couple in love, I'd watch Twilight.

Drink!

Every time there is a tender embrace followed by a man and woman flawlessly hitting their mark by looking directly into the camera with warm smiles of wholehearted content and love?

Drink!

Every time you lose your lunch/dinner/breakfast/mind?

Drink!

Every kiss begins with Kay?! Hell. Every kegger begins with Kay.

A woman’s interpretation of the jingle is no doubt something to this effect: Me and THIS guy sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! First comes love! Then comes marriage! Then comes a baby in a baby carriage!

Which, ironically, isn’t so similar to a man’s: Buy our jewelry! With the power of your hard-earned cash, you’ll earn yourself smooches and maybe more if she’s not tired and doesn’t have a headache and the kids are in bed and it’s* big enough!

*the diamonds

The ingenuity of the commercials, you see, is in both parties seemingly getting what they desire. Also, who can resist that tagline? “Every kiss begins with Kay?!” Kay Jewelers doesn’t have to search for fine metals and stones to make their jewelry cuz that’s a gold mine right there.

I wish that just ONE commercial could be slightly altered for a pleasant change from the idealistic fantasy of marriage proposals, perfect children and owning jewelry you clearly can’t afford.

Something like:

Booming announcer’s voice (raspy): “This holiday season, do you know where your lover is?”

He should have gone to Jared.

Footage cuts to man tied up to chair in basement. His apparent kidnapper hands him the phone, on which his lover is on the line.

Kidnapped man (panicked): “Honey, just do as he says!”

Lover: “He wants the jewelry, Derek! Doesn’t he know chocolate is a girl’s best friend? Or is it diamonds? Flips hair dramatically with a flick of a hand, showing off new bling. Now I don’t have to choose because I have them both in this gorgeous, 14K, ¾ carot, gold-encrusted ring you bought me from Kay Jewelry. Anyway, it’s not right, Derek, and I won’t stand for it! By the way, did you happen to pick up the milk on your way home?”

Derek (sighing deeply): “No, they didn’t have one percent and I refuse to drink that skim crap. And you know that 2 percent goes straight to my hips. Besides, I didn’t like the selection of dairy products the gas station had, and Hy-Vee was HALF AN HOUR AWA…”

Nudged by his kidnapper, Derek returns to the real issue at hand.

Derek (clearing throat): What I was saying was that with Kay’s reasonable prices for remarkable, brilliantly cut diamonds full of clarity, I’ll buy you more! Just give him what he wants and he’ll let me go!”

Lover (tapping foot, frustrated): “How am I supposed to make your favorite mashed potatoes without milk, Derek? Answer me that! I swear, you are so irresponsible sometimes…How did you even afford this fine, hand-crafted 14K white gold Journey necklace that you gave me for our anniversary?

Derek: “Honey, I beg of you, just give the man the jewelry and I’ll be home soon to explain everything.”

Lover: “No, you know what, Derek? You sit in that basement and think about what you did. Maybe the kidnapper and I can work out some sort of payment plan and a plan for your safe return after pick up the DAMN MILK!” Hangs up phone angrily.

Scene fades as Jane Seymour’s knowledgeable voice is overlaid into a scene showing Kay’s logo and new jingle: “Every kidnapping begins with Kay.”

Bringing the “va-va-voomba” back to Zumba

You haven’t truly lived until you’ve attended a Zumba class. This is especially true if you’re a white, uncoordinated female in a small rural town testing your non-existent skills in an overly-crowded, mirror-encased exercise sweatshop. Excuse me. Gym.

My spidey senses are telling me that it’s an epidemic!

Everything is magnified. EVERYTHING. This includes your own self-loathing that you haven’t been able to touch your toes since high school. (Are you humming Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days” yet?)

Those alongside you in class will be the first to attest that until they saw your weak, white-girl “dance” moves, they weren’t living either – at least not to their fullest or cheeriest.

If you don’t know what Zumba is, it’s a Latin-American inspired dance workout built around some good, old-fashioned belly and salsa dancing, hip hop, flamenco, samba, etc. It also always inevitably revolves around a Michael Jackson song or two because, eh – why not?

The workout is designed to make you crazy hot. As in, “in shape.” Toned. Hella buff.

Also, you sweat a lot.

Your first experience will not be pleasant. In any way. You’ll triumphantly think you have mastered a dance move only to discover you have fallen to the floor and physically can’t move. Zumba is sneaky that way.

Zumba is pleasant for those who know the basic moves and attend class regularly who are Latin American.

If you weren’t a She Wolf before Zumba, you’re sure to be one after! Rawr.

Anyway, for all my fellow classmates knew, I was simply aiding their abs in a simple yet effective laughter exercise with my flailing attempts. Laughter – it’s the sneakiest exercise of all. I try to lead you all in a few repetitions at least once weekly on this site.

That’s right. Read my blog for a better quality of life.

The fact that no one tapped me on the shoulder mid-session to tell me matter-of-factly that “Maybe you should just stick to dieting” gives me hope. You can’t fight gravity, my dear bloggers, and even at 26 years old, I know it will only worsen with age. Trust me – these hips don’t lie, except on the ground in exhaustion after a grueling hour of sashaying around (Read: colliding with people) like a complete idiot.

Zumba instructors should really survey new participants’ skill levels prior to joining for the safety and protection of everyone involved… Then perhaps mine would have easily known that I would have been better equipped in an experimental dance class full of orangutans and padded walls. Those orangutans would probably still pick up moves faster and more elegantly than me. It’s their long, dancer’s arms.

I can say with utter assurance that first Zumba class I attended was the least sexy I have ever felt in my life, and that’s saying something because I played fast-pitch softball for seven years.

I’m fully confident that I am at LEAST as sexy (and graceful) as this guy, who was clearly a swan in his past life.

If I recall correctly, I had to look down to verify that my woman parts were still intact – like they could be taken away for a blatant lack of grace and agility. Like Elizabeth Taylor would beam down from the heavens to where I’m standing and reprimand me with a frown and a “Bad woman!” wagging one slender, perfectly-manicured finger in my face.

 The second class I attended was a slight improvement. Could it have been because I stubbornly  fumed and balked from attending another for seven months, pondered, pondered some more, and then cheated the system…by buying my own Zumba DVDs!? (It was my first infomercial purchase, and I got two free maracas which have been fantastic for sitting stagnantly next to my weights and exercise ball collecting dust shaping my arms.)

Yes, it could. I practiced religiously in secret, with a plan to go to class with new friends who would be uber jealous of the way I could pick up new moves in the drop of a hat. And what’s that? Add some flava to the moves, individualizing them in my own creative way for added flair and style points?

Hey, you do what you have to do. 

AND IT TOTALLY WORKED!!!

I had never felt more sexy or confident. To use my Word of the Day app on my iPhone, however, then came the ironic portending. After zumba-ing my tush off in the third class I attended, I was so tired that upon standing lazily propped against my parents’ kitchen island, I rolled and sprained my ankle. My parents will tell you they didn’t laugh for a minute or two before helping me, but they did. Oh, gosh, they did.

And so I have proceeded to spend the last week propped lazily on the couch in baggy jammies. And I have (gasp)…a cankle.  (Are you humming LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” yet?) A cankle that means business. A cankle that whispers ominous things to me when no one is around, like “Eat that pint of ice cream”  and “You know you’ve always wanted a segway.”

Like I said, Zumba is sneaky. And apparently choosy. But I’ll be back.

Breaking news: Cucumber never really that cool

New evidence has been dug up in the ongoing investigation that the cucumber might not be as hip as previously thought, despite its former reputation of being “cool.”

An extensive exploration into its life revealed the fruit (Or is it a vegetable? I’m still a little fuzzy on the details…) as being quite a novice when it came to living up to the physical and sociological demands of being a cucumber, as showcased by its “green” characteristics.

“I once overheard the cucumber say it was capable of transforming into a pickle after it was plucked from its vine,” said fellow garden cohabiter, the carrot.

The worst magic trick imaginable to a garden.

“Amateur,” the carrot said chidingly. “Thinks it’s a magician.”

“Me, on the other hand?” the carrot suddenly asked no one in particular, sensing its five minutes of fame. “I’m gonna be a big star. I’m taking acting lessons! Check it out – this is me….being a basketball!”

Grunting, the carrot attempted to curl into a ball and after several attempts, blamed its lack of flexibility on the fact that it didn’t have the proper time to stretch beforehand. “Well, anyway. The orange can do it better than me.”

A background check on the cucumber exposed startling information never before released to the public. This exclusive interview with a bushel of beans sheds light on the cucumber’s spotty past.

“The cucumber? Yeah, I knew it in high school. Always wore those shirts with the unicorns and wolverines on them,” scoffed one bean, a former sprout and classmate of the cucumber. “And not ironically – like, it really enjoyed Code Red Mountain Dew and finding its own square roots. And trust me, were they ever squaaaaare…”

“Plus, one time the cucumber asked out a tomato and got totally rejected,” another bean added. “A TOMATO! ZOMG! Can you imagine!?” The beans snickered amongst themselves.

“We throw those at vegetables and fruits that CAN’T act,” said the carrot knowledgeably. “Please.”

“Plus, the cucumber had really bad skin,” said another bean. “One word: warts. Uh, groooooss!”

Sensing my journalistic responsibility to impartially report on the matter, I confronted the beans with authority. “Um, yes…Aren’t you guys known as the magical fruit?” (Seriously, we need to think of the grave ramifications of thoughtlessly labeling vegetables as fruits– it’s confusing to everyone.) “And as for your own societal value, would you care to explain the phrase, ‘Not worth a hill of beans?’”

"What's that smell?" "Taaaa-daaaaa!"

A muffled, nervous toot from the back of the group broke the lengthy silence. 

Making sure I wasn’t downwind of the garden, I hurried off to find the cucumber, who had called an emergency session with its psychiatrist to address some of its most common and serious allegations. “I guess maybe they could have meant that I’m like, ummm….refreshing?” the cucumber asked unsurely.

“You tell me,” answered the psychiatrist, a turnip and fellow neighbor of the cucumber, as it rubbed dirt from its eyes. “Perhaps the answer will TURNIP in your journey toward self-discovery,” it said wisely, with a boisterous smile.

The cucumber looked humorlessly at the turnip. “I’m not paying you to self-promote.”

The conversation proceeded to digress from the cucumber’s lack of hedge funds needed to secure its family’s property in the shady portions of the garden for years to come to its irrational fear of being eaten by the neighborhood dog, Suzie, on her next attempt to defile the lawn. 

Not obtaining the answers I was looking for, I returned to the garden searching for the truth. I found the cucumber’s arch enemy – the lemon.

“Do I think the cucumber is as cool as a watermelon that doubles as a fruit boat for a backyard picnic on a balmy summer day? Of course not,” scoffed the lemon from high atop its tree in the backyard. “And other fruits and vegetables taste refreshing in a tall glass of water too, you know,” it finished sourly.

"I wanted to go to college. I had hopes and dreams!"

“MMMHMMMMM!” mmmhmmed a nearby mint plant in agreement.

Trying to nail down some tangible answers, I went back to the carrot for further questioning, only to find it was last seen making a one-time appearance in a delicious stew made by the gardener that evening – a stew that the gardener’s family would later review as being “garden variety.”

The only other plant left in the garden to be interviewed was the zucchini who, similarly, was unavailable as it had been asked out on a (rather unoriginal) date to play squash.

"Puns: This story's ripe with them!"

I was in a pickle. Not knowing what to do or think, I sat down in the grass, moments away from writing off the story entirely.

“Oh, come on,” the cucumber yelled out cheerfully, relishing my dilemma. “We didn’t mean to catch you off gourd! With puns like these, how could I NOT be  the coolest one in this garden?”

“It’s true,” the garden dwellers cried in unison. “This whole time, we were just gherkin your chain!”

You have the right to remain…sarcastic

I went to the courthouse last Wednesday on my lunch hour to pick up some legal documents a friend needed for teaching. And yes – by “friend,” I actually mean friend and not myself. I’ve never gotten in trouble with the law a day in my life. I feed the homeless and cut up all my six-pack plastic soda rings. I read a book a day. Non-fiction.

Nothing says "non-fiction" like a reading bear.

First off, what is it about pulling up to a courthouse that makes you desperately wish you had reviewed a driving manual before you had left? I turned onto the street and it was suddenly an all-out panic. Am I going the speed limit? What’s a speed limit!? HOW DO I BUCKLE THIS SEAT BELT?! Basic motor skills, Cass, basic motor skills. You GOT this. Ahhh, which way is left!!!??

 

In my mind, there’s a sniper at the top floor window of the courthouse just waiting for someone to turn into a parking spot without using their blinker, plotting the moment he can take aim with a devilish smile, thinking, Gotcha, no-blinker McGee. Hope you paid your taxes, cuz the line’s a mile long where you’re going.

Just walking up the front steps sent shivers down my spine. The businesslike clickity-clack of my heels was in perfect rhythm with the words repeating in my mind. Don’t look back, don’t look back. I could feel bystanders’ eyes burning accusatory holes into my back, thinking:

What did she do wrong THIS time? The real crime should be that derriere looking so great in those slacks. Why is this turkey sandwich so dry? (Well, can’t always be the center of attention. It was lunchtime, after all.)

Yup. Not having the guilt of ever getting in trouble a day in my life sure felt good.

I’m a reasonably mature, (can I emphasis again) level-headed adult, so I wasn’t afraid to ask for directions once inside.

Just keep swimming, just keep swimming...

“Yes, I’m here to pick up important documents. They’re for a friend,” I say. The story instantly sounds flimsy.

I pointedly look down at my formal work attire and aspiring work badge and put on my most winning smile as if to say, “Do I look like the type of person who would get into trouble?” My eyes twinkle with the rest of a responsibly-acquired, eight-hour night’s sleep.

The woman smiles back, a knowing “God, you’re amazing” smile – surely not to be confused with her “I get this all the time and see right though you” smile – and directs me upstairs. I hear something about a metal detector and security guard in my concerted efforts to appear Christian, mentally stable and like the type of person who regularly showers.

I find the metal detector and the security guard.

“Ma’am, do you have a cell phone?” I was clearly holding a bright red cell phone. “You can’t take that in with you.”

I gasp in dismay. What kind of atmosphere was the office two feet away that phones were restricted? With appalled scrutiny, I notice the lighting beyond the guard isn’t fluorescent. Instead, the office is bathed in a welcoming, warm glow and candy (assorted fun-sized candy bars– they had splurged on the good stuff) overflowed from the front desk jar. In the distance, the department manager lazily laid across a hammock, eating plump grapes from the hands of a voluptuous assistant.

Hum. Good to see our taxpayers’ dollars at work.

I see a set of trays and try to hand my phone to the security guard to place in a tray. “Iiiii don’t want your phone,” he sneers.

Good, because I don’t want you to have it, either, I think stubbornly. Prolly get it all sticky.

“See that locker behind you? You can put it there. Do you need your purse?”

It’s like he’s never met a woman before. Which, thinking back, he clearly hasn’t.

“Uhh, I guess not,” I say, officially thrown aback. I put everything in the locker and try to close it.

“You need a quarter,” he says impatiently, as if I should have known because I was the one who had built and engineered the locker’s very design.

We all knew I didn’t have a quarter. He sighed in irritancy for approximately five minutes.

“I’ve been sitting here all day,” he says. Huh, funny, because I feel like I’ve been sitting there all day.

What does that even imply?! I scream in my head. Yes, ok. You seem like the kind of guy who wants to help a girl out. Sign me up to owe you a favor, oh, mighty master and keeper of the courthouse. You and that Subway sandwich that you seem to have no trouble making love to right in front of me. That sounds delightful!

Prolly steal my purse and get it all covered in ranch.

I resignedly half shut the locker door and after two attempts and the loss of some accessories, make it through the metal detector, but not before encountering more sighing. If I lost my personal belongings, at least I would walk out of there with a gold medal for biggest burden in this man’s life. (If you’re wondering, my acceptance speech will probably go something like this: “Oh, gosh. Thank you. THANK YOU! This is all so unexpected. There are so many people who helped me get to where I am. First, my friend, for asking me to come here. I couldn’t have done it without you. Second, my immense hunger, which turned me into the impatient, famished spectacle I am today…Oh, and of course, you, angry security guard. Without you and your snide remarks, this most celebrated, momentous day would not have been possible.”)

After I was cleared, I walk into the office only to discover I was in the wrong department.

“Why did your friend send you here if you don’t know what you’re doing?” he asks as I sheepishly walk past him again. I fervently wish I had forgotten to use my blinker outside. If this wasn’t my worst nightmare, I’d have been sure it was hell.

He then gave me directions to the correct office, which was conveniently located down the hall and to the right, but not before coming across a rickety bridge under which a boiling lava river teemed with piranhas. Ironically, the department was also only accessibe by way of completing a Sunday word puzzle, making the perfect soufflé and finding the kidnapped princess after a series of harrowingly dangerous adventures in which I could only use a paperclip, rubber band and bobby pin for weaponry. 

If there was ever a time I needed Martha Stewart's cooking and jail-time prowess...

AND I had to go through the metal detector again.

I refused to be broken.

Upon gathering the documents from the first floor, the clerk tells me that she has spoken with the security guard and I can go get my purse to pay the fees. I wince, wishing desperately I could teleport to the locker and back unnoticed.

Instead, I go through the metal detector. The wrong way. By accident, of course. It beeps loudly in dismay, echoing my mistake unforgivingly across the cold marble floor. I freeze, shoulders hunched.

Yikes.

The security guard quite possibly has a stroke. I couldn’t tell because his bulging eyes and beads of frustrated sweat were becoming the day’s norm for me. 

“DID YOU NOT SEE THE EXIT SIGN?” he yells, unnecessarily loudly. I mean, I’m right there. I’m still the only one right there.

I did not. In my closed-eyed wishing, no, I somehow totally missed the strategically placed exit sign that is the size of a pencil eraser, written in some fancy French script that’s barely legible and conveniently located three feet outside the area I’m supposed to exit.

I look around confusedly, playing it off like he’s talking to someone else. Daggers shoot from his eyes. Paradoxically, they are probably the only weapons he’s legally allowed to use for his job.

“Oh, me? You’re talking to me? Whoops! Just came to grab my purse. Need to pay for these documents. They’re important, and for a friend,” I say helpfully. I’m afraid to turn my back, as I am indefinitely moments away from getting tased and/or arrested.  I reach behind me and fumble for the right locker and purse, never breaking eye contact. Daring to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Desperately wanting to steal his delicious-looking sandwich and run.

“Oh, and I don’t appreciate you putting words in my mouth. I never said you couldn’t have your purse. Hundreds of women walk through here every day with purses,” he says pointedly. 

“You’re right. I’m so dead wrong. I apologize profusely,” I say with a sticky sweetness capable of conjuring up cavities. “How could you asking if I need my purse after saying I can’t have my phone possibly imply that I couldn’t have my purse either? Wow, I’m dumb! SO dumb!” I say, chuckling. “What are we going to do with me, right? Right?!”

As he rifles roughly through my things, he pulls out a camera from my purse. “What’s this?”

“A. Camera.”

I speak slowly and softly, as if he is a newborn child.

“See, it takes pictures. Like in storybooks? Hey, we should take a picture together! This is a moment I don’t want to forget! New Facebook profile pic! Best buds. …Best buds?” I ask brightly.

Best Buds 4-Eva!

He throws me my purse and glares his disapproval.

I go back through the metal detector.

As I’m paying in the department, I smile innocently and tell the clerks to pray for the mean, joyless security guard. My teeth shine with bright clarity, emphasizing my dependable nature and love for puppies, freedom and giving all my belongings to the poor.

As I leave, I make an exaggerated effort to notice the exit area by imitating an overly obese person accidentally colliding with the cloth fencing material and sign and getting caught in them. I fake surprise and mouth “Ahhhh!!,” arms flailing, hoping to get a dry laugh or two.

Nothing.

I straighten my formal work attire and clear my throat awkwardly.

“Thank you SO very much for your time and assistance – it’s MUCH appreciated,” I say, selfless and kindly. Humbly. I sneak a peek at the guard.

Still nothing. He pretends I do not exist. I think about asking about my gold medal, but then recall the week’s $5 foot-long special from Subway he cheated on his wife with earlier that day and realized he probably does not splurge on medals for customers, no matter how wholesome and fiscally responsible they may be.

I get in my car and heave a sigh of relief. I am halfway home before I realize I left my phone in the locker.