Lagniappe, pronounced lan-yap, means "a little something extra" in Cajun. Here's a little something extra on a Friday night. The following post is an actual email I sent to the work out buddy in November of 2009. The events are real. You can't make this stuff up.
The subject was "I'm Lucky to be Alive".
So the most frightening thing happened to me this morning. I was brushing my teeth and right when I put my toothbrush in my mouth, I took a breath and swallowed a little toothpaste. Well, I'm not sure how it happened, but it was like my throat closed up and I couldn't swallow. Since I couldn't swallow I couldn't breathe. I freaked the you-know-what out. I threw my toothbrush across the room and started running around like a crazy person. Then I was like ok, calm down, breathe, cough, do something! I couldn't breathe and I couldn't cough so I was like oh my gosh, I am choking! But it's not like I could do the Heimlich because I didn't have anything lodged down my throat. So I tried to take a sip of water and I could barely get my mouth open but when I did I couldn't swallow so I sprayed water all over the bathroom and threw the bottle across the room. I finally got a little air and just stood still until I could get bigger gulps, but I promise you that was the scariest thing ever! I was so sure I was going to die and no one would find me. I was white like baby Audrey when she stopped breathing. I called my dad and I told him what happened and I just started crying. Now, it's actually really funny and I'm sure if anyone had been watching it would have been hilarious, but I was seriously choking!
One time my cat Timmy got a bag stuck on his head and he ran around the house like a jaguar, except he was running in to things and sliding all over the place and he wouldn't let us catch him so we could rescue him. That's how I was. I was seriously running back and forth from the living room the bathroom. I don't know what I was thinking, but I couldn't make myself be calm! I am never brushing my teeth again. You can get me gum for Christmas so I don't have bad breath.
Hannah Herring
Client Services Analyst, Client Relations
TSYS, Customer Care Division
706.649.4450 work
706.644.9220 fax
706.505.6836 cell
haherring@tsys.com
Friday, February 26, 2010
GTGL
I am not ashamed to admit that I am a fan of the Jersey Shore. My only regret is that I jumped on the band wagon a couple months too late. Kristin called me one day and asked me if I watched our Guido and Guidette friends and I was so excited to talk with someone about them. I realized, however, that I missed an important episode when they explained a part of their every day lives--GTL. Gym. Tan. Laundry. That is so my life. I don't mind it one bit, either. I throw in an extra G and L on most day. If New Life Tanning Salon would let me, I would throw in an extra T, too!
This morning I started my day at 5 am so that I could be at the gym for the very last session of the TSYS Boot Camp (thank goodness!). After leading boot camp, my work out buddy said, "Wanna run a mile?" Of course I didn't really want to, but I had no reason not to. So I did. I passed the time by telling stories while gym buddy counted our laps. I didn't care if she was listening or not. I just wanted to make sure she knew how many laps we had left. Gym.
I get exactly ONE HOUR for lunch. This is hard for me. I came from a job that allowed me to pretty much come and go as I pleased. I was attached to a Blackberry, but still...I got to go where I wanted to when I wanted to for how long I wanted to. Not so in Omegaland. I have to plan my lunches out to make the most efficient use of my time. There are so many errands to run, but how did I choose to spend my one hour today? I drove 20 minutes to across town so I could lay in the tanning bed for 20 minutes and then drove 20 minutes back across town. Tan.
Our gym is launching a new release of RPM on Monday, so I have lots of choreography to learn. After work, my work out buddy and I went back to the gym to ride the release. We decided that we are going to come up with some sweet synchronized movements to entertain our classes next week. Don't worry, we know we're awesome. Gym.
It's Friday night. I'm sitting at home watching the Real Housewives of Orange County and blogging while I'm waiting for a huge load of gym clothes to be washed. Gotta keep the GTL flow moving. I am scared for my life if I ever have my own family. I wash about 4 loads of laundry a week, just by myself. And it's not like I just throw a load in the washer and throw it in the dryer. I only dry my pajamas, and not even all of them get dried. So I have these huge loads that must be sorted, then sifted through to pull out all of the things that hang dry or lay flat to dry. Then I tote my huge load of wet clothes in the house and proceed to hang and lay out my clothes. But it doesn't stop there. I have to wait for them all to dry, fold them, and put them away. I get that this is how laundry is done, but seriously...4 loads a week?!? Laundry.
GTL. It's my life. I like my life, so I'll keep doin' it.
This morning I started my day at 5 am so that I could be at the gym for the very last session of the TSYS Boot Camp (thank goodness!). After leading boot camp, my work out buddy said, "Wanna run a mile?" Of course I didn't really want to, but I had no reason not to. So I did. I passed the time by telling stories while gym buddy counted our laps. I didn't care if she was listening or not. I just wanted to make sure she knew how many laps we had left. Gym.
I get exactly ONE HOUR for lunch. This is hard for me. I came from a job that allowed me to pretty much come and go as I pleased. I was attached to a Blackberry, but still...I got to go where I wanted to when I wanted to for how long I wanted to. Not so in Omegaland. I have to plan my lunches out to make the most efficient use of my time. There are so many errands to run, but how did I choose to spend my one hour today? I drove 20 minutes to across town so I could lay in the tanning bed for 20 minutes and then drove 20 minutes back across town. Tan.
Our gym is launching a new release of RPM on Monday, so I have lots of choreography to learn. After work, my work out buddy and I went back to the gym to ride the release. We decided that we are going to come up with some sweet synchronized movements to entertain our classes next week. Don't worry, we know we're awesome. Gym.
It's Friday night. I'm sitting at home watching the Real Housewives of Orange County and blogging while I'm waiting for a huge load of gym clothes to be washed. Gotta keep the GTL flow moving. I am scared for my life if I ever have my own family. I wash about 4 loads of laundry a week, just by myself. And it's not like I just throw a load in the washer and throw it in the dryer. I only dry my pajamas, and not even all of them get dried. So I have these huge loads that must be sorted, then sifted through to pull out all of the things that hang dry or lay flat to dry. Then I tote my huge load of wet clothes in the house and proceed to hang and lay out my clothes. But it doesn't stop there. I have to wait for them all to dry, fold them, and put them away. I get that this is how laundry is done, but seriously...4 loads a week?!? Laundry.
GTL. It's my life. I like my life, so I'll keep doin' it.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Sweater Song Vs. The Thong Song
Warning: I am about to tell you too much about myself.
I teach classes at the gym. Every three months I anxiously await my new choreography and music and tear open the envelope to see what pop song I will teach twisted with as a techno remix. Often they will mix two songs and the title becomes Song 1 Vs. Song 2. Today, something happened to me that made my mind mix two songs together.
I was sitting at a co-worker's desk when I suddenly became aware that when I leaned forward, you could see about 4 inches of my back (okay, my back and maybe the top of my undies). Let's just say if I was back at BYU in the Testing Center, or the Cougar Eat, the HBL, the Honor Code police would have probably given me a warning (You know how that feels, BFF). Anyway, I tugged on my purple tank top to cover up my purple panties, but I noticed a loose string on my panties. So, I gave that a little tug, too. But it wouldn't stop. I just kept pulling and pulling and pulling. I could feel the string that started at the top of my waist band work its way all the way to the danger zone. When I finally was able to snap off the string, I had a ball of thread about the size of a quarter in my hand. Stupid, cheap Old Navy panties.
So there it is: The Sweater Song Vs. The Thong Song. "If you want to destroy this sweater, pull this thread as I walk away (as I walk away). Watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked. Baby make your booty show. Let me see that tho-on-ong."
Too much information? You were warned. Sorry, that's what you get from a day in the life of High-Heeled Hannah.
I teach classes at the gym. Every three months I anxiously await my new choreography and music and tear open the envelope to see what pop song I will teach twisted with as a techno remix. Often they will mix two songs and the title becomes Song 1 Vs. Song 2. Today, something happened to me that made my mind mix two songs together.
I was sitting at a co-worker's desk when I suddenly became aware that when I leaned forward, you could see about 4 inches of my back (okay, my back and maybe the top of my undies). Let's just say if I was back at BYU in the Testing Center, or the Cougar Eat, the HBL, the Honor Code police would have probably given me a warning (You know how that feels, BFF). Anyway, I tugged on my purple tank top to cover up my purple panties, but I noticed a loose string on my panties. So, I gave that a little tug, too. But it wouldn't stop. I just kept pulling and pulling and pulling. I could feel the string that started at the top of my waist band work its way all the way to the danger zone. When I finally was able to snap off the string, I had a ball of thread about the size of a quarter in my hand. Stupid, cheap Old Navy panties.
So there it is: The Sweater Song Vs. The Thong Song. "If you want to destroy this sweater, pull this thread as I walk away (as I walk away). Watch me unravel, I'll soon be naked. Baby make your booty show. Let me see that tho-on-ong."
Too much information? You were warned. Sorry, that's what you get from a day in the life of High-Heeled Hannah.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
I Love ME!
It might surprise you, given my long-standing single status, that I don't hate Valentine's Day. I think a day when you get to tell the people you care about how much you care about them is important. As with most things in my life, I am able to find humor in things that others might not be able to. With that said, today's post will highlight some of my most memorable Valentine's Days. Please don't mistake any of these for me feeling sad and sorry for myself. They are all funny, and some even sweet, in their own special way.
When I was in 4th grade my mom bought me some Girbaud jean shorts. I am pretty sure I told her to buy them for me and she did so to shut me up. But here's the thing....who gets shorts in February. I did grow up in Louisiana, and even if it was indeed warm enough to wear shorts, it should never be allowed in February, unless you live in say, Cancun. But I proudly sported my new Girbaud jean shorts to school, shirt tucked in so you could see the label, and froze my chubby, not yet shaven, legs off. Maybe my mom was trying to teach me a lesson: It's not always fun to get everything you want.
Shorty after the Girbaud jean shorts year, probably the very next year, my daddy gave my sisters and me Valentine's cards. In recent years, I can count on getting at least two cards from my dad on birthdays and other holidays, sometimes 3 or 4 or 5. But not when we were younger, so this was a special surprise. I will never forget the idea of this card on this Valentine's Day. My dad had a way of reaching out to me, without ever really saying anything deep or profound. I was a very unhappy and miserable child. I was teased and made fun of for lots of different reasons. Some how my daddy knew this about me even though I never really talked about it. He gave me a card that year that said something about guessing what his most special and favorite and beautiful Valentine was. When you opened the card, there was little piece of foil-like plastic, and my chubby, four-eyed face stared back at me. I had never felt so special in my whole life.
I honestly do not remember any Valentine's Days from high school. I have put a mental block on most things that happened during those 4 awful years.
Fastforward to college. In 2002, the year the Winter Olympics were in Salt Lake, my parents had just bought me a brand new Honda Civic (rest in peace, Civ). Of course I didn't have a date, so my roommate Sarah and I drove north on I-15 to find a Cracker Barrel. I think we got to about Sandy before I realized we should have driven south. So, not truly valuing the cost of a gallon of gas or an extra mile on my car, we turned around and made the journey to Springville. Sarah and I got to eat a special "couple" table--the checker board table on top of a barrel right next to the huge wood burning fire place. I know you're jealous that you've never gotten to eat at the checker board.
I have a best friend who has a husband who is a very hard worker. He works so hard in fact, that he often needs a little coaching and reminding about holidays and birthdays. I am more than happy to assist. On their second Valentine's Day as a married couple, I was called to action. I was given a budget and an afternoon at University Mall in Orem. There is something that can only be described as a high that comes from spending someone else's money on things that I loved buying. Then reality hit and it hit hard when I had to hand over all the gifts I would have so loved to keep for myself. But I didn't walk away from that Valentine's Day empty-handed. The best friend gave me a little vase of pale pink fake roses. She said she was giving them to me since no boy was going to give me flowers. If you don't know me and my best friend, that could sound pretty ugly and slightly demeaning. It wasn't. I still have those flowers and I would take them any day over flowers from a boy.
The next year, I had a friend who was a boy, but certainly not a boyfriend. He went to Vegas for Valentine's Day, where he slept in his car with 3 other boys since they didn't book a hotel before they left. When he came back, however, he wanted to see me and give me my gift. I really wished he hadn't. I was handed a drug store gift bag filled with drug store chocolates, a drug store stuffed animal of some sort a Diet Coke and...get ready...plastic hand cuffs. And that's all I have to say about that.
A few years ago I had a cute friend named Mary who worked with me. Her boyfriend didn't live here, so she and I decided to spend Valentine's Day together. We ordered Papa John's, watched American Idol, and made a homemade chocolate cake in the shape of a heart. We had a blast and were looking forward to sharing our Martha Stewart decadence with our co-workers the next day. The next day came, and instead of feeling good about sharing our treat, I wanted to shove it in this one guy's neanderthal forehead. When Mary and I told him how we had spent our night he looked at me and snorted, "Man...you really need a boyfriend."
There are other funnier stories from more recent years. However, I run the risk other people who read this knowing who I'm talking about, and while I'm okay with embarrassing myself, I feel the need to protect the guilty.
Bless my heart. Again, it's a good thing I love myself (maybe too much?) enough to not let these get me down. Love me! (Get it? Like "Love you!")
When I was in 4th grade my mom bought me some Girbaud jean shorts. I am pretty sure I told her to buy them for me and she did so to shut me up. But here's the thing....who gets shorts in February. I did grow up in Louisiana, and even if it was indeed warm enough to wear shorts, it should never be allowed in February, unless you live in say, Cancun. But I proudly sported my new Girbaud jean shorts to school, shirt tucked in so you could see the label, and froze my chubby, not yet shaven, legs off. Maybe my mom was trying to teach me a lesson: It's not always fun to get everything you want.
Shorty after the Girbaud jean shorts year, probably the very next year, my daddy gave my sisters and me Valentine's cards. In recent years, I can count on getting at least two cards from my dad on birthdays and other holidays, sometimes 3 or 4 or 5. But not when we were younger, so this was a special surprise. I will never forget the idea of this card on this Valentine's Day. My dad had a way of reaching out to me, without ever really saying anything deep or profound. I was a very unhappy and miserable child. I was teased and made fun of for lots of different reasons. Some how my daddy knew this about me even though I never really talked about it. He gave me a card that year that said something about guessing what his most special and favorite and beautiful Valentine was. When you opened the card, there was little piece of foil-like plastic, and my chubby, four-eyed face stared back at me. I had never felt so special in my whole life.
I honestly do not remember any Valentine's Days from high school. I have put a mental block on most things that happened during those 4 awful years.
Fastforward to college. In 2002, the year the Winter Olympics were in Salt Lake, my parents had just bought me a brand new Honda Civic (rest in peace, Civ). Of course I didn't have a date, so my roommate Sarah and I drove north on I-15 to find a Cracker Barrel. I think we got to about Sandy before I realized we should have driven south. So, not truly valuing the cost of a gallon of gas or an extra mile on my car, we turned around and made the journey to Springville. Sarah and I got to eat a special "couple" table--the checker board table on top of a barrel right next to the huge wood burning fire place. I know you're jealous that you've never gotten to eat at the checker board.
I have a best friend who has a husband who is a very hard worker. He works so hard in fact, that he often needs a little coaching and reminding about holidays and birthdays. I am more than happy to assist. On their second Valentine's Day as a married couple, I was called to action. I was given a budget and an afternoon at University Mall in Orem. There is something that can only be described as a high that comes from spending someone else's money on things that I loved buying. Then reality hit and it hit hard when I had to hand over all the gifts I would have so loved to keep for myself. But I didn't walk away from that Valentine's Day empty-handed. The best friend gave me a little vase of pale pink fake roses. She said she was giving them to me since no boy was going to give me flowers. If you don't know me and my best friend, that could sound pretty ugly and slightly demeaning. It wasn't. I still have those flowers and I would take them any day over flowers from a boy.
The next year, I had a friend who was a boy, but certainly not a boyfriend. He went to Vegas for Valentine's Day, where he slept in his car with 3 other boys since they didn't book a hotel before they left. When he came back, however, he wanted to see me and give me my gift. I really wished he hadn't. I was handed a drug store gift bag filled with drug store chocolates, a drug store stuffed animal of some sort a Diet Coke and...get ready...plastic hand cuffs. And that's all I have to say about that.
A few years ago I had a cute friend named Mary who worked with me. Her boyfriend didn't live here, so she and I decided to spend Valentine's Day together. We ordered Papa John's, watched American Idol, and made a homemade chocolate cake in the shape of a heart. We had a blast and were looking forward to sharing our Martha Stewart decadence with our co-workers the next day. The next day came, and instead of feeling good about sharing our treat, I wanted to shove it in this one guy's neanderthal forehead. When Mary and I told him how we had spent our night he looked at me and snorted, "Man...you really need a boyfriend."
There are other funnier stories from more recent years. However, I run the risk other people who read this knowing who I'm talking about, and while I'm okay with embarrassing myself, I feel the need to protect the guilty.
Bless my heart. Again, it's a good thing I love myself (maybe too much?) enough to not let these get me down. Love me! (Get it? Like "Love you!")
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Self Esteem Beat Down
I decided to treat myself to a Valentine's Day manicure and pedicure. Warning: Do not go to a nail salon if you're looking to feel better about yourself. Please don't get me wrong, I am really not racist, but there is something about the filter on the mouth that doesn't quite work with those little Asian women. I recount for you now the things the lady said about me in English that I actually understood. Who knows what she said that I didn't understand in both English and Vietnamese.
"Your nail yellow. You leave polish on too long."
"Ugh...that nail gross. What you do? It hurt?"
After she cut my skin and made me bleed: "Ooooo....I sorry, honey. Your skin so thick right there."
"Now your nail look better. No more bumps."
"Your flip flop too tight. You make me mess up your toe."
"Bye. Have a good night. Don't drink too much."
That's not all though. As I was standing up to vacate the pedicure chair, she quickly moved in front of me to pull my shirt down over my muffin top. As if I that wasn't enough, she actually hooked her finger through my belt loop and pulled up my courdoroys. I'm serious. It's a good thing I love myself enough to endure the self-esteem beat that will always come with visitng a nail salon. At least this time she didn't ask why I don't have a boyfriend.
If you're bored and you haven't seen this video on YouTube, I highly recommend. It's one those that's so true, it's almost not funny.
"Your nail yellow. You leave polish on too long."
"Ugh...that nail gross. What you do? It hurt?"
After she cut my skin and made me bleed: "Ooooo....I sorry, honey. Your skin so thick right there."
"Now your nail look better. No more bumps."
"Your flip flop too tight. You make me mess up your toe."
"Bye. Have a good night. Don't drink too much."
That's not all though. As I was standing up to vacate the pedicure chair, she quickly moved in front of me to pull my shirt down over my muffin top. As if I that wasn't enough, she actually hooked her finger through my belt loop and pulled up my courdoroys. I'm serious. It's a good thing I love myself enough to endure the self-esteem beat that will always come with visitng a nail salon. At least this time she didn't ask why I don't have a boyfriend.
If you're bored and you haven't seen this video on YouTube, I highly recommend. It's one those that's so true, it's almost not funny.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Only Classy Ladies Come To My Line
I went to see Dear John tonight with some girls from work. The company was great. The movie, not so much. Like it was even worse than I expected. I don't like mush and love and sweetness and tenderness. I'm on team Jacob. The movie made me feel awkward and embarassed and quite frankly, a little grossed out. Two great things did happen that made the whole evening worth the bad movie.
On the way out of the movie this young guy tripped and hurt his ankle. His little girlfriend kept trying to get him to keep walking and he just couldn't. I tried not to laugh until I got to the bottom of the stairs and was sure I wouldn't fall since I did happen to be in heels. But once I did get to the bottom, I promptly informed the injured boy's friends that he was still at the top of the stairs sitting down because he had tripped and hurt himself. Then I laughed way too loud and kept moving.
The best part happened before we even got into the theater. Our movie started at 7:15 and we were just a little late. However, Carolyn, the girl who sold the tickets, told us not to worry. We had plenty of time for concessions, or the bathroom, or anything we wanted to do because there was like 30 minutes of previews. So we trusted Carolyn and got in line for Diet Coke (and maybe popcorn). I have a certain knack for picking the best lines. My definition of best does not mean fastest or friendliest. I can always seem to find the wackiest or grumpiest, or dumbest cashier. They always give me the best stories though. Tonight was no exception. Our concession cashier was a young man who clearly enjoyed his job...especially when cute girls came through his line. He took special care to make sure my friend got the "freshest popcorn in the batch and none of those mashed up crumbs". And he was all to happy to give me a large Diet Coke for less than $5.30. I felt slightly ripped off, considering you can buy a 12-pack for a lot less than that. However, I walked away feeling it was worth it when our excited cashier sent us on our way saying, "Only classy ladies come to my line." Yeah, that's right. The popcorn boy thinks I'm classy.
On the way out of the movie this young guy tripped and hurt his ankle. His little girlfriend kept trying to get him to keep walking and he just couldn't. I tried not to laugh until I got to the bottom of the stairs and was sure I wouldn't fall since I did happen to be in heels. But once I did get to the bottom, I promptly informed the injured boy's friends that he was still at the top of the stairs sitting down because he had tripped and hurt himself. Then I laughed way too loud and kept moving.
The best part happened before we even got into the theater. Our movie started at 7:15 and we were just a little late. However, Carolyn, the girl who sold the tickets, told us not to worry. We had plenty of time for concessions, or the bathroom, or anything we wanted to do because there was like 30 minutes of previews. So we trusted Carolyn and got in line for Diet Coke (and maybe popcorn). I have a certain knack for picking the best lines. My definition of best does not mean fastest or friendliest. I can always seem to find the wackiest or grumpiest, or dumbest cashier. They always give me the best stories though. Tonight was no exception. Our concession cashier was a young man who clearly enjoyed his job...especially when cute girls came through his line. He took special care to make sure my friend got the "freshest popcorn in the batch and none of those mashed up crumbs". And he was all to happy to give me a large Diet Coke for less than $5.30. I felt slightly ripped off, considering you can buy a 12-pack for a lot less than that. However, I walked away feeling it was worth it when our excited cashier sent us on our way saying, "Only classy ladies come to my line." Yeah, that's right. The popcorn boy thinks I'm classy.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Girl, I Gotta Watch My Back, Cause I'm Not Just Anybody
Tonight's post's title comes to you courtesy of Young Money's song entitled, "BedRock". Haven't heard it? Well, you're missing out on some...poetic lyrics. "Call me Mr. Flintstone. I can make your bed rock." Sometimes I'm jealous of how clever these folks are.
I've always been what some might call "high maintenance". I won't deny this, but I would like to explain that only my grooming is high maintenance. I don't need anyone to take care of me and cater to any ridiculous requests (except for closing the lid on the toilet and putting the Diet Coke in the very back of the fridge and keeping my closet organized by color and sleeve length). But yes, my grooming rituals are somewhat..."involved". Sadly, however, I have realized that at some point, and I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but at some point, I have gotten a little lax in my rituals.
I will spare you the details of the obsessive-compulsive manner in which I shower, and how many pumps of lotion get applied to each limb, and the specific method I use to wrap my towel around me. I will tell you however, that it's always been pretty hard work to be Hannah and to get ready to go places. Apparently, I'm getting wiser as I get older. (Read "lazy and tired"). Instead of shaving twice a day, I'm down to once a day. The other day I actually went to work without shaving at all. (I promise I won't do it again. It was awful!) But an event that happened last Thursday is where I draw the line.
I was in the bathroom washing my hands (for the amount of time it took me to sing the ABC song in my head, which is the appropriate amount of time to properly clean one's hands), and I checked out my hair as I reached for exactly 3 paper towels--two to dry my hands, and one to turn off the faucet. I swear I'm not high maintenance. Anyway, as I turned in the mirror I was absolutely horrifed at what I saw. My neckline was a scraggly, furry mess. I find when something like this occurs, I want everyone to know about it so they don't think I'm walking around looking like a mess and don't realize it. So I bounded out of the bathroom and scolded everyone around me letting me walk around looking like a raggamuffin. (Aside...One time I taught a class at the gym at lunch time. I forget to pack a clean pair of undies and I couldn't bear the thought of wearing sweaty undies for the remainder of the day, so I went commando. Unfortunately, I was sitting with some people at work for the rest of the day. I was sitting in front of them and I was absolutely horrified by the thought of one of them gatching a glimpse of my bare booty. So instead of risking an accidental mooning, I felt the best thing would be for me to announce to everyone that I would be working sans panties for the rest of the day. I think it went over well.)
Anyway, the ah ha moment came for me when I accepted that I just didn't have time to get my neckline trimmed every week like I used to. It was liberating to be at peace with my body's hair growth rate. The old Hannah would have skipped lunch and gone that very day to get things cleaned up. The new Hannah cracked jokes about her manly neck line. Lest you think I have abandoned my true self, please note that at 9 am the next day, I was on the phone with the salon to squeeze myself in to Sheri's schedule to get my bangs trimmed and neckline cleaned. After all, I gotta watch my back, cause I'm not just anybody.
I've always been what some might call "high maintenance". I won't deny this, but I would like to explain that only my grooming is high maintenance. I don't need anyone to take care of me and cater to any ridiculous requests (except for closing the lid on the toilet and putting the Diet Coke in the very back of the fridge and keeping my closet organized by color and sleeve length). But yes, my grooming rituals are somewhat..."involved". Sadly, however, I have realized that at some point, and I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but at some point, I have gotten a little lax in my rituals.
I will spare you the details of the obsessive-compulsive manner in which I shower, and how many pumps of lotion get applied to each limb, and the specific method I use to wrap my towel around me. I will tell you however, that it's always been pretty hard work to be Hannah and to get ready to go places. Apparently, I'm getting wiser as I get older. (Read "lazy and tired"). Instead of shaving twice a day, I'm down to once a day. The other day I actually went to work without shaving at all. (I promise I won't do it again. It was awful!) But an event that happened last Thursday is where I draw the line.
I was in the bathroom washing my hands (for the amount of time it took me to sing the ABC song in my head, which is the appropriate amount of time to properly clean one's hands), and I checked out my hair as I reached for exactly 3 paper towels--two to dry my hands, and one to turn off the faucet. I swear I'm not high maintenance. Anyway, as I turned in the mirror I was absolutely horrifed at what I saw. My neckline was a scraggly, furry mess. I find when something like this occurs, I want everyone to know about it so they don't think I'm walking around looking like a mess and don't realize it. So I bounded out of the bathroom and scolded everyone around me letting me walk around looking like a raggamuffin. (Aside...One time I taught a class at the gym at lunch time. I forget to pack a clean pair of undies and I couldn't bear the thought of wearing sweaty undies for the remainder of the day, so I went commando. Unfortunately, I was sitting with some people at work for the rest of the day. I was sitting in front of them and I was absolutely horrified by the thought of one of them gatching a glimpse of my bare booty. So instead of risking an accidental mooning, I felt the best thing would be for me to announce to everyone that I would be working sans panties for the rest of the day. I think it went over well.)
Anyway, the ah ha moment came for me when I accepted that I just didn't have time to get my neckline trimmed every week like I used to. It was liberating to be at peace with my body's hair growth rate. The old Hannah would have skipped lunch and gone that very day to get things cleaned up. The new Hannah cracked jokes about her manly neck line. Lest you think I have abandoned my true self, please note that at 9 am the next day, I was on the phone with the salon to squeeze myself in to Sheri's schedule to get my bangs trimmed and neckline cleaned. After all, I gotta watch my back, cause I'm not just anybody.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
It's a Small World After All
I say it all the time, but it really is a small world. I seem to come in contact with the same people over and over and over again. It happened again today. As part of my job, I review addresses for guys and girls who will be receiving a statement for their fraternity or sorority dues. Today I was looking at a chapter from Texas Christian University. I came across an address from my home town, Slidell, Louisiana. Of course it caught my attention, so I looked to see who it was. Lo and behold, I knew it who it was. It turned out to be my older sister's and my high school Trigonometry teacher's child. My mom also taught this lady's youngest son first grade 11 years ago. I sent her a quick email and said she remembered two of her favorite students and our crazy mom. This may seem small, but if I had a dollar for every time one of these random encounters occured, I'd have like ten dollars. That may not seem like a lot, but how many times can YOU say something that happened? I got more for you.
Last April I was sitting in the back row at church when this family bustled in. I recognized the lady who was clearly the mom of this clan, but the person I thought she was was the mother a friend who lived in Utah. I thought nothing more of it until Sacrament was over and one of girls came up to me and asked me where she should take her children for Primary. I told her I would tell her if she told me her name. Before she could even get it out, I said it for her. It turned out that one of my very good friends from Utah had a little sister who married a boy who is in the Army and was stationed at Fort Benning for several months. So, there it is again. I got two rounds of this awesome family in my life. I've kind of stopped being surprised by these random round-abouts in my life.
My very first roommate at BYU sent me an email last summer to let me know that we would soon be neighbors. Yes, this girl who was from Utah and had been living in New England moved right up the road from me to Newnan, Georgia. I could seriously keep going, but I'll spare you. I will say that I don't think these people come back in my life by accident. If for nothing else other than it makes me smile when they come back to see me, I'll take it.
Last April I was sitting in the back row at church when this family bustled in. I recognized the lady who was clearly the mom of this clan, but the person I thought she was was the mother a friend who lived in Utah. I thought nothing more of it until Sacrament was over and one of girls came up to me and asked me where she should take her children for Primary. I told her I would tell her if she told me her name. Before she could even get it out, I said it for her. It turned out that one of my very good friends from Utah had a little sister who married a boy who is in the Army and was stationed at Fort Benning for several months. So, there it is again. I got two rounds of this awesome family in my life. I've kind of stopped being surprised by these random round-abouts in my life.
My very first roommate at BYU sent me an email last summer to let me know that we would soon be neighbors. Yes, this girl who was from Utah and had been living in New England moved right up the road from me to Newnan, Georgia. I could seriously keep going, but I'll spare you. I will say that I don't think these people come back in my life by accident. If for nothing else other than it makes me smile when they come back to see me, I'll take it.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
No More Monkeys Swingin' from the Bar
So as I was thinking of what I would write about today, my mind went to something I saw at the gym this morning. Then I realized that all of my posts thus far have been happenings while I'm actually wearing Nikes, not high heels. I think it might be because when I'm tip-toeing around in my heels, my guard is completely up. Not because I want to keep people our or seem intimidating. It's because I have to concentrate so hard on not rolling my ankle or tripping. I'm so far in the runway walking zone that I don't stop to enjoy the funny little things that happen. It's when the heels come off that I'm fully able to observe my surroundings and take in the humor all around me. When I'm wearing my Nikes, I'm usually at the gym. And trust me...there are plenty of humorous happenings going on in the gym.
This morning, my work out buddy and her husband met me at the new YMCA for a pre-work work out. There was just a handful of people there, so we pretty much had free reign of the place...just like we like it! One of the best things about the gym is watching people and the crazy stuff they do to "work out". It's also one of the most frustrating things about the gym. Imagine if you were _________ (fill in the blank with your favorite famous singer) watching the American Idol auditions that are going on now. You're probably really frustrated and embarrassed for these people and appalled at what they're doing. Okay, so not that I know everything there is to know about proper form and technique at the gym, but I know enough to be dangerous.
Okay, back to this morning. So we are hustling through our work out when we come to an exercise that requires a step. Work out buddy strategically places the step where it's easily accessible to all three of us. Completely oblivious to the fact that we are using the step, an older gentleman (and by older gentleman, I mean old man) comes up and stands on our step to hoist himself up to the bar one might hang from to do chin ups or ab work. But he does neither of those exercises. He hangs from the bar, lifts his knees slightly, and begins to flutter kick his big white tennis shoes. Work out buddy and I make no effort whatsoever to hide the fact we are mocking his "exercise". He seriously looked like a monkey hanging from a tree playing a game with his monkey buddies.
My work out buddy and I have decided we need to come up with a code signal to indicate when we see something awesome going on at the gym. We especially love to see people walking around with the big stick that resides with the balance balls at the DA Turner YMCA. Or the lady who sat on the hamstring curl machine with no weight and kicked the bar like she was sitting on a porch swing with a glass of ice tea. Part of us feels the need to maybe help these people and show them how to perform their exercises efficiently and safely. But the better part of us enjoys sitting back and watching the nonsense ensue around us. After all, what would talk about while we're doing mountain climbers or plyo push ups? For now, I'll maneuver around the monkeys and try not to get hurt by their shenanigans.
This morning, my work out buddy and her husband met me at the new YMCA for a pre-work work out. There was just a handful of people there, so we pretty much had free reign of the place...just like we like it! One of the best things about the gym is watching people and the crazy stuff they do to "work out". It's also one of the most frustrating things about the gym. Imagine if you were _________ (fill in the blank with your favorite famous singer) watching the American Idol auditions that are going on now. You're probably really frustrated and embarrassed for these people and appalled at what they're doing. Okay, so not that I know everything there is to know about proper form and technique at the gym, but I know enough to be dangerous.
Okay, back to this morning. So we are hustling through our work out when we come to an exercise that requires a step. Work out buddy strategically places the step where it's easily accessible to all three of us. Completely oblivious to the fact that we are using the step, an older gentleman (and by older gentleman, I mean old man) comes up and stands on our step to hoist himself up to the bar one might hang from to do chin ups or ab work. But he does neither of those exercises. He hangs from the bar, lifts his knees slightly, and begins to flutter kick his big white tennis shoes. Work out buddy and I make no effort whatsoever to hide the fact we are mocking his "exercise". He seriously looked like a monkey hanging from a tree playing a game with his monkey buddies.
My work out buddy and I have decided we need to come up with a code signal to indicate when we see something awesome going on at the gym. We especially love to see people walking around with the big stick that resides with the balance balls at the DA Turner YMCA. Or the lady who sat on the hamstring curl machine with no weight and kicked the bar like she was sitting on a porch swing with a glass of ice tea. Part of us feels the need to maybe help these people and show them how to perform their exercises efficiently and safely. But the better part of us enjoys sitting back and watching the nonsense ensue around us. After all, what would talk about while we're doing mountain climbers or plyo push ups? For now, I'll maneuver around the monkeys and try not to get hurt by their shenanigans.
Monday, February 1, 2010
I Got a Feeling
I got a feeling that I have the coolest family ever. Last night I came in from doing laundry, only to discover Granny sitting in front of the TV watching the Black Eyed Peas perfom on the Grammy's. I stood behind for a few minutes to make sure she wasn't just flipping through channels. She so was not. She had a made a conscious decision to enjoy our favorite legume in musical form. When I asked her what she was doing watching the Black Eyed Peas and Fergie and said, "Oh, I didn't know Fergie was a Black Eyed Pea." So she didn't know who she was watching, but she definitely knows who Fergie is.
A few years ago, my mom came to my sister with her cell phone and said, "Um, can you show me how to get these free Fergie ringtones?" Because she was a loyal American Idol text voter, she got special AT&T text messages with offers such as free Fergie ringtones. I'm pretty sure mom's don't get any cooler than mine. Allow me to further illustrate my point.
Each year my mom gets to help write a play for the first graders at her school. This year's play is loosely based on Alice in Wonderland. Mom, as always, is the mother. Her costume will include a huge necklace...shaped like a clock...like Flava Flav's. It gets better. At some point during the play, she plans to sing Atlanta Housewive Kim's song--"Don't Be Tardy for the Party". Haven't heard of it? You're just not as cool as Mommy.
My mom is more than just a pop culture junkie. She is the strongest, kindest, funniest, most generous lady I know. She has given my sisters and me much more than we have ever deserved. She puts up with a lot of people's crap. She's awesome. I'm glad she's mine. Sorry...you can't have her.
A few years ago, my mom came to my sister with her cell phone and said, "Um, can you show me how to get these free Fergie ringtones?" Because she was a loyal American Idol text voter, she got special AT&T text messages with offers such as free Fergie ringtones. I'm pretty sure mom's don't get any cooler than mine. Allow me to further illustrate my point.
Each year my mom gets to help write a play for the first graders at her school. This year's play is loosely based on Alice in Wonderland. Mom, as always, is the mother. Her costume will include a huge necklace...shaped like a clock...like Flava Flav's. It gets better. At some point during the play, she plans to sing Atlanta Housewive Kim's song--"Don't Be Tardy for the Party". Haven't heard of it? You're just not as cool as Mommy.
My mom is more than just a pop culture junkie. She is the strongest, kindest, funniest, most generous lady I know. She has given my sisters and me much more than we have ever deserved. She puts up with a lot of people's crap. She's awesome. I'm glad she's mine. Sorry...you can't have her.
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About Me
- hannah
- Just a busy girl trying to make the world a better place one group fitness class at a time.