Category Archives: Fun!

East Coast Girls are hip (and other tales of moving to a foreign state)

With apologies to the Beach Boys, I prefer David Lee Roth‘s version of ” California Girls.” Holy crap, what a great video. If you don’t remember it, it’s here. David Lee Roth and in some instances, (I’m talkin’ to you, “Hot For Teacher“) Van Halen, made perhaps the best videos of the Great Video Era, the era that made me who I am today. Ah, MTV. You are now so full of suck.

But I am belaboring the point of this blog. It does, however, make nice little entry points into what I really want to talk about: ME!

In fewer than three weeks, I’ll be living and working in Connecticut. I know I’ll be working in Bristol for ESPN. I’m not sure, however, where I’ll be living. That’ll take care of itself. And since I have absolutely no idea if I want to live in the city or country, I guess I’ll know it when I see it. Fortunately, Disney/ESPN has an app for that — a real life app/counselor who will show me around the great Nutmeg state until I find someplace where me, the dog and everyone else can live in peace and harmony and sports.

I haven’t blogged, yes, I know, but my life has been in relative chaos, plus my brain hurts. I think I’m vapor-locked. I have been getting just exhausted at the idea of doing anything — but then I get so much accomplished, I’m shocked. Today I’m waiting for people to call to tell me how to go about selling my house. I had already sorta gone through this with my own Realtor, but you know, Disney has their own way of doing things — and that’s totally cool since they’re moving me gratis.

I’m going to let them ship my car, then rent a car and make the trek up to C-State with my bro Nick. He’s already requested to see a large ball of twine. Challenge accepted.

I haven’t hardly had a chance to let the whole “I’m leaving Oklahoma, land that I love” angle sink in yet, and that’s probably a good thing. I will NOT be listening to any Shelley West/David Frizzell classics, at least until I’m so settled I can’t change my mind. “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma” was the reason I moved back to the Sooner State after living in Dallas. But Dallas was so much closer — and the job wasn’t as awesome as the one I’m about to undertake. Holy crap, I’m workin’ for ESPN.

I’m kind of packing, mostly just getting rid of stuff. Disney’s moving team does the actual packing. I just have to pack the stuff I don’t want them to see! Seriously, I don’t want them reading my crappy poetry from the 90s and thinking I’m a psycho. I’m sure they won’t but I’m a paranoid girl who wrote a lot of bad poetry.

Life is sort of on one of those weird collision courses right now. Way too many coincidences. It’s like when I lived in Tahlequah and I knew I was exactly in the right place at the right time. I missed Tahlequah and my friends before our time was even up. Right now, I just can’t help but think this is, great job aside, where I belong.

Not to go all transcendental weirdo here, but I had a dream a few years ago that I moved to Portland, Maine, and it started this whole East Coast love again. Don’t know why I’ve always had it. Since I was 11, when I went there on a summer trip, seeing Boston, Nantucket, Cape Cod… I felt like it was sort of my next home. And lo and behold, it is.

Now, instead of wondering about the news value of 2012’s supposed End O’ the World, I’m hoping it’s all bollocks and I will live in New England in a great apartment FOREVER. Make bi-annual trips to the Cape, actually become acquainted with NYC, go to Red Sox games (preferably during Interleague, when the Rockies are in town) and a million other things.

(Yes, I wondered at the news value of the End of Days. I can’t help it. 100 percent journalist.)

I’m still waiting for ESPN to call and tell me the deal’s off.  They haven’t yet. In fact, they keep calling with more details, so I guess it’s really going to happen. Geez, am I ready for this? And I know I’ll be missing all my Oklahoma people before long. I know they’re happy for me though, and with the magic of the Garish  Chicken, I intend to keep you all hanging on my every word (haha, yeah right.)

To avoid a possible meltdown here, I’m going to do what I do best and deflect with music. Let’s go back to the land of the music video, that bygone era when music and movies came together for 3 to 5 minutes of brilliance.

Case in point:  Yankee Rose. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Connecticut, ESPN, Fun!, Moving, Music, Tahlequah, Travel, Tulsa, TV

Comparisons: 1995 Sarah vs. 2011 Sarah (Introspection 101)

I’m a few months from my 37th birthday. That doesn’t look as bad on the computer screen as it feels in my head.

I realize that 37 isn’t technically old. It ain’t 22, which I’m pretty sure was my favorite year on earth. I say pretty sure because I don’t remember much of it. Ah, college. Ah, Tahlequah. The entire city has an above-the-legal-limit blood alcohol level, I’m convinced.

I’ve been a Tulsan since 2002, after spending 10 years in Tahlequah. This year, especially, has been pivotal, and I have a feeling the Wheel of Fortune hasn’t stopped turning, either for bad or for evil. (I’m not talking about the show, though in my advanced years, I like that a lot now too.)

Events in my life seem to be spiraling quickly. Once you set the ol’ wheel in motion in my life, you have to hold on. I’m slow to motivate, but once I’ve got my mind made up, it’s on. I blame my fiery Aries mama for this.

Some new developments, for those who care: Still waiting to hear from ESPN. Lost my job at the Food Bank. Putting my house on the market. Hopefully doing some freelance work. Minimizing, my stuff and my rotund self.

To kick off this effort (that sound SO MUCH like a press release) I’ve decided to pit 2011 Sarah against 1995 Sarah. It’s a startling contrast, and I’m proud to say that 2011 Sarah wins… not in the Charlie Sheen sense, but still.

1995 Sarah’s job: Manager, Del Rancho restaurant.
2011 Sarah’s job: Assistant editor, Tulsa World.
Advantage: 2011.

1995 Sarah’s bedtime:  5 a.m., or whenever we heard the birds and the streetsweeper, we knew it was time to retire.
2011 Sarah’s bedtime: A much more reasonable 2 a.m. or 3 a.m., but only because I now only have one job and it’s a later start. And I’m a natural night owl.
Advantage: 2011, though 1995 was way more fun.

Oh, Sarah. Where did you get these ridiculous outfits? The hair alone is bad enough. But I thought I was bad-ass. Hilarious. It was 1995. That's my excuse.

1995 Sarah’s clothes: Hippie not-so-chic, cut-off corduroys, flower-print Doc Martens, band T-shirts, no makeup, no hairdryer, no straightener, no jewelry. Sack-like dresses
2011 Sarah’s clothes: Black pants in various cuts, black dresses, solid-print tops with black cardigans, black and more black, a spot of jewelry, hair blown dry every day and straightened, or at least brushed, makeup every day.
Advantage: 2011, by a longshot.

1995 Sarah’s diet: Pasta-Roni, Taco Bell, sandwiches. Chinese food from Grand China.
2011 Sarah’s diet: Whatever I can find, Taco Bueno, homemade Chinese food, lots of soup.
Advantage: Tie. I still eat horrible food on occasion. I really wish my parents would’ve let me have more fast food growing up so I didn’t feel the compulsion to make up for lost time.

1995 Sarah’s fitness: 12-ounce curls, bong-lifting and other recreational “hobbies,”  couch-jumping.
2011 Sarah’s fitness: Lots of walking, active gym membership (just got a new one at the Y, going today for the first time!)… but more than that, an actual knowledge of the need for fitness instead of a general lack of caring.
Advantage: 2011.

1995 Sarah’s relationships: Blah.
2011 Sarah’s relationships: Blah, but don’t really give a shit.
Advantage: Blah.

1995 Sarah’s inner peace: Fabricated by copious amounts of weed and alcohol
2011 Sarah’s inner peace: Somewhat tattered, but at least it can pass a drug test. Lack of paranoia is refreshing.
Advantage: 2011.

1995 Sarah’s ambition: Throwing the Best Party Ever, seeing more shows than you.
2011 Sarah’s ambition: Sky-high. Maybe I can still become a singer (kidding). Entering poetry and short-story contests.  Trying for new job on the East Coast. The Novel isn’t just a dream anymore, it’s rising to the surface.
Advantage: Depends on the outcome. Some days, I really miss the carefree days of college, when I was just accruing debt instead of dreaming about paying it off. I miss going to two shows a week, drinking shots every night, etc. But now, I wake up with more hope instead of hangovers. If I accomplish everything I hope to, then definitely Advantage 2011.

1995 Sarah’s lodging: Cheap rent house. At one time, we paid $53/month to rent this cheap little house because so many people lived in it.
2011 Sarah’s lodging: My own house, which I’m about to put on the market. Homeownership is great, some of the time.
Advantage: I wouldn’t be saying this last year, but advantage 1995. I miss renting. I miss the freedom to just up and leave. I hope my house sells.

1995 Sarah’s friends: I saw them every day. I had a lot. I loved them like family.
2011 Sarah’s friends: I don’t see them enough. I have many left. I love them like family.
Advantage: Tie. Damn we had fun. I made the best friends I could’ve ever made in college, and fortunately, most of them are still just a phone call away. The slight tip of the scale would go to 1995, but 2011 is strong in the knowledge that they’re not going anywhere. Love you guys.

 1995 Sarah’s cash flow: I lived paycheck to paycheck, but didn’t hardly have any bills. Always had money for clothes and … well, everything.
2011 Sarah’s cash flow: I live paycheck to paycheck, but I’m doing what I love. Never have money.
Advantage: 2011, though it’s a close call. In 1995, I didn’t even have credit cards. I spent like there was no tomorrow and lived for financial aid’s change checks. At least in 2011 I have some accountability, and am paying off the debt I accrued in the early 2000s.

1995 Sarah’s music: Jane’s Addiction, Liz Phair, PJ Harvey, Nirvana, The Doors, Tripping Daisy, Ween, Hole, Pearl Jam, Flaming Lips, anything “stoner rock” or “trippy rock.”
2011 Sarah’s music: Boundless. Ween (for the win!), Bob Dylan, Professor Longhair, The Modern Lovers, Sex Pistols, Nat King Cole, The Libertines, U2, Jane’s Addiction, Balfa Brothers, Roxy Music, Duran Duran, Morrissey/Smiths, Black Sabbath, Pavement, Norah Jones… the list goes on.
Advantage: 2011. Technology has made my music library swell to unbelievable heights. I don’t get to go to as many shows as before, but I can immerse myself in music so much easier than before. It’s still my No. 1 hobby, which hasn’t changed since 1978, but now it’s all at my fingertips… HUGE advantage 2011.

There are more comparisons, but these are the ones I’ve undertaken. I challenge you to pit yourself against another time and see what era comes out the winner. It’s enlightening to see how far you’ve come, and it makes you realize that you’re got it pretty good.

Advantage: Sarah.

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Filed under Childhood, Family, Food, Fun!, General Nonsense, Love, Music, Newspapers, Tahlequah, Travel, Tulsa

Things to do before the Rapture (Saturday)

It’s been a busy few weeks for me. I’ll elaborate later, probably with pictures. Not THOSE kind of pictures… those don’t get downloaded.

Other failed attemps at Rapture

An earlier failed attemps at Rapture... OR WAS IT?

I’ve been reading with scant interest the reports of the Rapture wiping out all of humanity on Saturday. I’m Episcopalian; as far as I know we don’t really believe in Rapture. Then again, we’re kinda like Nell sometimes: “Tay in the wind, chickapee,” just sorta swinging from side to side, hoping our beliefs will find purchase… But Rapture hasn’t been brought up as far as I know.

But suffice it to say, the idea of Rapture A) is inspiration enough for a blog; and B) makes me want to trade in my to-do list for an “actually want to do” list.

And of course, I’m a broke-ass journalist, so I don’t have the funds to do fun stuff like “Sail to Italy” or “Buy device that will explode land so I can sail in a straight line to Italy nonstop.” So I won’t offer any suggestions that will require lots of money.*

(* = OK, one will cost a lot. But I have ideas on where to get the cash.)

So what can you do on a limited budget, to satisfy your need to accomplish something/do something fun/fuck around before the Rapture?

Prince: Just don't look 'em in the eye.

Prince: Just don't look 'em in the eye.

* Call the Guy. You know the one, Dr. Everything Be All Right, ‘stead of asking how much of your time is left, ask him much of your mind, baby… Sorry, every now and then Prince just takes over my body. I looked him in the eye. But seriously. You should call The Guy or The Girl and tell ‘em what’s up. It’s easy. Just say, “I’ve always loved you, I can’t live without you and don’t want to, so it’s a good thing the world is ending because you’re A) Married B) In Witness Protection C) currently renewing the protective order, or D) A commitmentphobe who’s just not that into me.” Just make the call! This Rapture thing’s for sure, right?
  

DO IT! We're all gonna die anyway.

The KFC DoubleDown: On any Rapture-Friendly Menu.

* Eat a KFC Double-Down. I’ve wanted to since KFC foisted this upon us, and even though I inhale tacos like there is no tomorrow (haha!), the Double-Down seems like something you’d eat only if you were sure the End O’ Days was around the bend. My brother eats them, but he also can bench-press a 1980s-era Dodge Ram. He can eat whatever he wants and it turns to Pure Steel.

* Graffiti your own house. Since I’ve been a homeowner, the same week that Katrina happened – shoulda been an omen – I’ve wanted to do something really crazy like tag my own house. I’m not good with spray-painting, I don’t think, since I can barely scrawl my name using an actual stylus. But wouldn’t it be fun? I’d spray-paint Charles Bukowski quotes on my garage door. Now THAT’s irony, folks. No one will be around to get it, but at least I got it.

Steelers, no.

Not a Steelers fan, but I've always been quite the Mike Tomlin fan. Meow.

* Go black. (Stay with me on this one… I promise it’s not racist.) As the ol’ saying goes, you can never go back, so now’s the time! If you can’t live with the idea of actually expressing your desire for another human being based on what they look like, the Rapture list is made for you!  I’ve always thought this phrase ridiculous, but then again, I’m attracted to everything, even the occasional table lamp. Skin color has absolutely nothing to do with who I’m attracted to, and it never will. I’ve “gone black,” and been back, and “gone black” again, then been back again. I’ve even “gone toast-colored.” But if you’re one of those people who’s kinda freaked out by race, always wanted to try it but are afraid of What The Neighbors Will Think, this is your week!

Her womb was so polluted

Her womb was so polluted, she couldn't even have a little baby. -- Tony Montana

* Go Scarface on a pile of cocaine. Or whatever you’ve always wanted to do. But remember: While I’m 100 percent sure that the Rapture is coming, (It says so on the Internet) on the off-chance that it’s not, you still might be random drug-tested the next day. And who knows how long it takes to pee out a Tony Montaña-sized pile of cocaine? This doesn’t really qualify as something you’d do on a budget, so you should probably preface a drug binge of this magnitude with selling your house, robbing a liquor store, brazenly walking into convenience stores and stealing their “Save the Children” buckets, stuff like that.

Of course, these are just suggestions. You do whatever you want with your last days. Hell, what have you got to lose? It’s the end of the world as you know it, you might as well feel fine.

And yes, I know every word to that song.

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Why I didn’t watch the Royal Wedding

I didn’t watch  it, OK? That does not make me a love-hater, hater of love. My neglecting to watch the nuptials had nothing to do with any sort of anti-British mentality. I actually aspire to go to London first in my conquering (read: extensive tourism) of Europe. I plan to have a Joey-esque time the entire trip, shouting, “London, BABY!” as often and loudly as possible.

No, the reason I didn’t watch is was because it was broadcast too damn early and I work 12- to 14-hour days. I need sleep. Another reason? It was a wedding… a WEDDING. The wedding part would’ve been fine, I guess — one of my good friends says I should’ve watched because it cast my denomination, Episcopalian nee Anglican, in a good light. I can get behind that logic. But it had the feeling of an awards show, something else I seldom watch. I really just can’t stand all that fluff in a broadcast. I fast-forward the Oscars, or wait until the winners list is out. I just can’t do it.

Perhaps this has something to do with being an editor who’s had to cut plenty of stories to fit into tiny spaces. I can no longer tolerate deadwood. And the only opinions I care about are those of people I actually know. For instance, I will read a column by Tulsa World columnist Dave Sittler after an important game, among other local columnists. I will read post-game analysis by college football beat writers. I will read a Q&A with Carrie Underwood or Blake Shelton written by an Oklahoma writer. But to hear some ditsy entertainment reporter on any host of networks go on and on and on about hats, dresses, etc.? No thanks.

Have I gone hyper-local? Perhaps. About some things.

In the case of Osama bin Laden, I went international, even watching coverage from al-Jazeera.

But that was the death of the biggest fucking plague to walk the erf in the last few decades. Killed by US — that’s U.S., U-S, One Nation Under God. At that moment, I felt united.

Friends who watched the wedding told me they felt united with the world  during the ceremony — the millions of badly-dentistried Britains in the street, while 400 million or so had their  eyes turned mistily to the tube, watching as the lovely Kate was adored by her now-husband Prince William.

The beauty is not lost on me, but  watching 14 straight hours of coverage is. I recall watching Lady Diana and Prince Charles’ wedding. I was also 6, so my Princess Phase was in full swing. I grew out of that when my Barbies became sexually active, around the time I was 8 or 9.

And truth be told, I really loved Di. I thought she was immaculate. I think her sons are too, but maybe the wound of her death would’ve been too much for me. I cry a lot. I didn’t need my whole Friday wrecked because of the spectacle.

Friends in the newsroom told me that this was “their Super Bowl,” and if I didn’t watch, I wasn’t to make fun of those who did. And I’m not. Really. It just wasn’t for me. It wasn’t my Super Bowl, or college football national championship, or Final Four, or even Frozen Four.

Game 6 of just about any NBA playoff game? A random May Rockies game that magically appears on TV (it happens rarely; I never see Colorado on TV unless I’m at the World, where they have every channel known to man, or if the Rockies are in the playoffs and Big Sports is forced to air them) I’d watch any day of the week.

I’m still not getting up a 4 a.m. to watch, however. And my DVR space is important to me. Recording 137 straight hours of wedding coverage sounds like that time I accidentally recorded “Ghost Hunters” seven-hour Halloween special: Annoying and DVR-clogging.

I’m glad so many people witnessed the beauty and splendor of the wedding. But please, do not think of me as The Elephant Man because I didn’t. I am not an animal.

Perhaps I am a love hater, hater of love. Andre Benjamin? You might have to help me out with this one.

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Filed under Fun!, General Nonsense, Haters, Love, Newspapers, Relationships, Sports, Travel, Tulsa

People Who Died (and those who didn’t.)

First, to explain the headline: When I was about 14, I heard Jim Carroll‘s “People Who Died” on the underground college radio station, which I picked up only on clear nights and when I held the antenna just so. I held that bad boy through countless broadcasts, finger at the ready to hit record anytime sometime cool or seemingly relevant came on the radio.

Countless volumes of badly-dubbed tapes were the result. And I still have them, catalogued and filed away in a bag. I still thank RSU radio for making me at least a teensy bit cooler.

Jim Carroll, whose life is chronicled in the book/movie “The Basketball Diaries” wrote that song, and many others (“Catholic Boy” is another gem.) But “People Who Died” is the one always in my head.

It’s good to have a list of “People Who Died.” The most recent big-name addition to the “People Who Died” list of the world is Osama Bin Laden. Hey, if you didn’t know that, you might’ve actually been in a cave, and not hanging out in palatial Abbottabad. So yeah, I’m not breaking any news on that.

I’ve been planning on blogging this since I came to the stark realization last week that — get this — GORDON LIGHTFOOT IS ALIVE. I could’ve sworn that man was dead. I don’t know why — perhaps VH1 didn’t do a “Behind The Music” on Lightfoot. Perhaps I never had reason to look him up. Perhaps I thought he died in the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. (Sorry, too easy, low-hanging fruit and all that.) I tweeted the lyrics to a GL song, jokingly saying he “went too fast.” A friend on Twitter exclaimed, “He’s dead? I hadn’t heard!” He was really upset. I had to retract that statement, or at least tweet something else quickly that I was just full of shit.

But it made me realize: There are a lot of people I thought were dead who just aren’t.

Some examples:

I want this as a handheld fan I can take to church or ballgames. ABE! ABE! ABE! ABE! ABE!

Abe Vigoda. He’s one of those people that you assume already has a memorial scholarship named for him. He was born in 1921.  Way to go, Abe! I hope I’m not jinxing you!

Shirley Temple. In my mind, she’s 137 years old (Joe Louis’ age, of course, when Rocky Marciano beat him) and has been dead for quite some time. THAT’S NOT TRUE! She was born in 1928 and is still kickin’.

Dick Van Patten. Oddly enough, he was also born in 1928. Turns out, 80 wasn’t enough. Neither is 83. Still drawing breath.

Apprently the Denver Post thought Charlotte Rae was dead too. This was in their photo archive.

Mrs. Garrett, AKA Charlotte Rhea. She was born in 1926, and apparently has all the “Facts of Life” necessary to keep herself alive for a long time. She’s even been a reference in “Family Guy” for her voluptuous bosom.

Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe marrying children keeps you young? I shan’t try. I don’t know if I believe in marriage.

Carol Alt was everywhere in 1982. Is she off hanging with Debra Winger or something?

Carol Alt. I know, random, but it seems like she was everywhere, then she disappeared. I’m used to supermodels creeping back into the spotlight every now and again, such as Isabella Rossellini or Lauren Hutton. But what happened to Carol? Come back out, Carol. The world needs more pretty people.

Some people who are dead who may surprise you: Eddie Rabbit, Falco and Michael Jackson (haha, gotcha.)

So I’m done obsessing over death, at least people who aren’t really dead. Now to turn my attention back to people who are for real dead: OBL and ODB.

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Music, Uncategorized, Women

Crazy Women 101: Your Guide to Her-Steria

I’ll be the first to admit that women can be … batshit crazy.

I’m a woman, so I can readily admit to such lunacy. But you have to understand, we are hard-wired to include many more freak-out pressure points than men. Little things that roll of a man’s back like water off a duck’s back are likely to completely cloud a woman’s thinking to the point of ax murder.

I’ve taken the liberty of revealing some of these little elixirs in the crazy cocktail. So next time you see a woman with a downright troubled, fearful look in her eye, don’t judge her by her seemingly perfect wardrobe, perfectly coiffed hair or French-manicured toenails. The problems lie much deeper. You’ll thank me, men, for letting you know. Women, I’m sorry to tell a few of our secrets. But don’t worry, it’s for the betterment of humanity. And I would never give all of them away.

Condition 1: Tuckaphobia Skirtis

Dress tucked into underwear

Well of COURSE theres a Google image for this. Yes, men, this is a womans Worst Nightmare.

Every woman who’s ever worn a skirt or dress in her life (and if you haven’t, bravo) has experienced an acute case of TS at least once. I like wearing skirts and dresses, so I experience a bout every time. Especially if the skirt/dress is lightweight or flowing.

Here’s how it goes: You run to the restroom, and unlike men, have to completely disrobe your bottom half to Take Care O’ Business. Let’s assume you’re on deadline, or trying not to be away from your desk too long because your co-workers are A) on a really long lunch and you have to man the phones; or B) time how long your gone and assume you’re pooping, or C) run to tell your boss that you’ve disappeared and they would like to go ahead and have your new job title.

These are the things that run through a peeing woman’s mind. And if she’s pooping, you’d better believe it’s the fastest poop in town. We are convinced that every person in our office is sitting there with a stopwatch, measuring the length of time we’re in there. We don’t want to be known as Work Poopers. We don’t want the other girls thinking, “Well I’m not going in there for a while.”

You guys have it so easy. You relish your poops. I imagine you show each other if a small group has formed in the bathroom. I know you don’t have doors. How uncivilized is that, really?

But back to women, yeah, we gotta hurry. And when you hurry, especially in a dress, you run the risk of pulling your panties up and tucking part of the skirt/dress into your panties, thereby walking through the newsroom/office baring your extremely pale, dimpled asscheek for everyone to see. Oh, and your neon orange ratty panties. No, it’s never happened to me. Because I run The Check. The Check is basically where you run your hand down your ass from the time you pull your panties up until you get back to your desk. You can even look in the mirror to make sure, but you still run The Check to make sure the mirrors aren’t rigged. Tuckaphobia Skirtis might be a form of OCD. If not, it should be.

Condition 2: Taganoia.

St. Michael Jordan tagless

Michael Jordan has made huge strides against Taganoia with his invention of tagless Hanes T-Shirts. Love live St. Michael Jordan!

This is the fear that your tag is hanging out of your shirt. It doesn’t sound too awful, but believe me, it is. Tags, random pieces of cloth sewn to your garment, love to just roll on out of the collar, practically screaming to the world, “She’s wearing an  XL! And It’s an off-brand! AND IT’S FAKE LINEN!” Tags hanging out of clothes make you look slovenly.

Usually, some Good Samaritan, always another Taganoic female, comes along to tuck in the tag for you, patting you on the back afterward and giving you that look of, “Don’t worry, I took care of it. I’m so sorry this happened.”

Taganoia is thankfully on the decline, thanks to the genius who decided to put stamps on the inside of shirts rather than sewn-in tags. Why didn’t we think of this sooner? It seems a lot of sweatshops would’ve been thankful that they don’t have to sew in those tiny tacky tags anymore. Somehow, this is Michael Jordan’s doing. I saw those Hanes commercials. He’s the guy who invented tagless shirts. And I wasn’t sure I could love him more… sigh.

It’s odd, though, that men’s shirts were the first, because as far as I know, men could care less about their tags hanging out, and have never suffered a moment of taganoia.

Condition 3: The KMZ.

KMZ is short for “Kill Myself Zit.” It’s basically one of those bad boys that populates your entire face. It walks in the room before you do. It makes you want to just lay down and die, or form a firing squad to take aim at it, possibly lobotomizing you, but you don’t care as long as that horrible thing is off your face. A KMZ attack makes women act really, really strange.

We’re convinced that the entire world can see it, that is shows up on Google Maps, that government agencies are planning what to do should it try to overthrow the government. It’s the kind of zit that doesn’t usually have anything in it. It’s just hostile and mean, full of pus (how DO you spell the adjective form of ‘pus’ anyway?) and refusing to go away. They’re prevalent in the summer for me, when I hate wearing scads of makeup.

But when I’m undergoing a KMZ attack, I throw on the makeup, which never matches, and it ends up melting away about 15 minutes after you apply it (Thanks, Oklahoma Summers!) So we have to pack a duffel bag full of possible fixes for the beast, and run to the restroom every 15 minutes to reapply our masks. And pee. For the love of God, if you have a KMZ, don’t wear a skirt. The stress alone could force an accidental tucking. And then the world would blow up. Note: KMZs are most common if a big day is coming up, such as your wedding, or a camera is within 15 feet of your face. And I’m of the firm belief that men don’t get zits after they turn 17.

And that’s all I’m going to reveal at this point. I can’t just throw all women’s secrets out there, because it might mean men would never touch them again, women would never get laid and that’s a bad thing. The craziness would multiply ten — no, hundredfold — it would be like having longhaired vampiric wildebeests roaming the city streets. We don’t need that. Not again.

I’ll reveal more, but I have to eke it out so the fragile male brain can absorb some, make peace, then move on. Or poop it out, in a room full of other guys.

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Garish Confessions, embarrassing or otherwise: The Spanx Chronicles (and beyond)

These are my confessions, brought to you today by Usher.

I haven’t blogged in two weeks. That’s not a confession, just a fact I thought I’d bring up as to clear the elephants out of the room. Damn things are always getting caught under my couch.

So yes, on to the confessions.  Some are Girl Style confessions, and thus, the harder ones to admit. But in case any of you didn’t know this yet, I don’t really care about embarrassing myself. It’s freeing, really.

So here goes.

Spanx

Like youd wear them if you looked like this anyway.

1.   Spanx make me look fatter. I’m convinced. Last week, I bought this cute little shift dress at Ross’s dress sale. I loved the way it looked in the store dressing room, when I was Spanx-less. I thought, Spanx could only make it better! Monday morning, I got all dolled up, put on the ol’ Spanx and high heels and headed to work. During Job 1, I ran to the bathroom, and while toddling in on the high heels I’m going to finally remove from my closet, got a side view of myself. I’m not a thin girl. I know this. Right now, juggling two stressful jobs, I’m probably not losing any weight, either. But still, the side view of me was very unpleasant. I went to the stall, then came back out with my Spanx down around my legs. I liked the look much better. The Spanx basically pushed all my flawed areas (read: fat) to the front, instead of keeping them in their natural place. Alas, there is no miracle. I took my Spanx off, tucked them under my arm, walked past a tour group, and then put them in my purse. No more Spanx for me. I also took the high heels off and replaced them with the flip-flops I had in my purse. Unless important people walked by. I kept the heels at the ready all day in case I need to walk by a big boss’s office. Fashion sucks

I'm just waiting for this moment to happen. Is that Kate Moss in the picture?

Im just waiting for this moment to happen. Is that Kate Moss in the picture?

2.   I cut my own bangs. I’ve had really long hair since eighth grade, after the picture fiasco. I have naturally curly hair, and in my seventh grade school picture, a piece of my then-short hair decided to stand up and say hi to the photographer. My mother loved the picture and wouldn’t let me get retakes. (Love you and miss you mom, but REALLY?) So I had long hair forever afterward, and I have good hair, I don’t mind saying, so length was always important to me. Until last year. I had a Delilah moment and cut off all my own power. ALL my hair was gone. It was cute, but I regretted it as soon as I did it. In fact, everyone who said, “Your hair is so cute!” got this in return: “Thanks, I’m growing it out.” And I have been. Now, it’s at least below my ears. Nearly ponytail length. And I haven’t been to see Brooke the Magnificent (my hairdresser) since November. It’s nearly May. So my bangs have been trimmed a few times by me, sometimes well, sometimes shakily, as I normally trim them in the morning before being fully awake. Fortunately I have thick hair that can cover a variety of sins. But Lord help me if I accidentally take off a whole chunk. That’ll be seventh grade all over again.

3. I have some of the same clothes I had in junior high. I am not a hoarder, but clothes are different for me. If it still fits, has its original color, and might come back into fashion, I don’t see why I can’t save it. I have this black turtleneck my sister Natalie bought me for Christmas in 1987 that I still wear. I realize now that the shirt is older than most of our summer interns who’ll be coming to the paper this year. But it’s warm and still very dark black, so it passes the test. And it’s a turtleneck. You only wear those when you’re extremely cold anyway, right? And under something, right? Oklahoma was privy to its share of extreme cold this year, thus came out the turtleneck. And the flower-print Doc Martens from my hippie days. If I was Renae, one of main homegirls, I’d have thrown that shit out years ago. She throws away everything. It’s who she is, and I’ve come to accept it. Once she threw out my spare housekey I gave her in case I died and needed her to feed Leon. She threw it out because “she didn’t know whose it was.” Thanks. Now I know Leon will starve. But yes, I keep clothes longer than I should. And since I’ve basically been the same size/shape since 1987, it’s OK.

I still love him.

4. I still cheer for Tiger Woods. He’s this generation’s Bill Clinton, for whom I still cheer. Sorry, they’re both beyond great. I realize Tiger is a lousy husband. I realize Tiger is kind of weird and awkward. But he’s still Tiger Effing Woods, and he’s still amazing in nearly every way except his personal life. Remember when we didn’t care what athletes did in their spare time? Or actors, or anyone else? Remember when we focused on our own lives or maybe those in our community? I say we take that approach again. Joe Namath is an alcoholic, and he’s still a living legend. We forgive the older generations their faux pas because TMZ wasn’t following them around exacerbating them. So yes, I still love Tiger. Good luck this year, mate. Fuck ‘em if they can’t let your private life be private.

This idiot, Rick Sanchez, is one of the main reasons I quit watching 24-hour news.

This idiot, Rick Sanchez, is one of the main reasons I quit watching 24-hour news.

5. I quit watching 24-hour news in 2004. I realize I’m a newsperson and I should probably keep up. But working for a newspaper makes you realize a lot of truths about the industry: TV people are actors, who have a very small staff that trolls for news. Usually good-looking staffers. Newspapers are large-staffed, moderate-looking people who don’t worry about camera time. We’re the ones actually pounding the pavement and breaking stories. And with websites and an actual understanding of how they work, we’re proving it over and over again. I don’t watch the nightly news, or have the ticker on. Ever. And it’s freeing. If I want to read something, I seek it out myself. And since I work for a newspaper, it’s pretty easy to find! I suggest everyone give up the 24-hour news cycle, even ESPN. See if you really miss it.

I hope you enjoyed the Garish Chicken’s confessions. I guarantee you there will be more, since I am clearly the most ridiculous person alive.

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense, Haters, Love, Newspapers, Sports, Tulsa

I’ve got my health… and not much else.

Perhaps I’m the stupidest person on earth. I think this because I seem to find freedom in bondage, pain in happiness, and liability in irresponsibility.

Who needs cash when you've got Tim Riggins?

I’ve been more cash-strapped than ever these last few weeks. It’s a combination of reckless spending on lunches and dinners I didn’t need coupled with ridiculous gas prices, increased food costs and the fact I haven’t had a raise in going on five years. (Viva journalism!) I was all sad and mopey about the fact that I’d have $40 to live on for two weeks until I made it through the first week spending barely anything. Just five more days to go. And I’ve got $35.

I’ve been working harder than ever, 12 to 14-hour days. And I’m looking for freelance gigs. And still, I smile on.

Turns out, I don’t need to eat lunch out every day. Turns out I have cabinets full of food, freezers full of treats and a condiment-stacked fridge containing all sorts of flavor-enhancing goodies. I think this is God’s way of telling me I need to take Lent more seriously. I gave up going out to eat for Lent, with the exception of one day a week. I haven’t honored that vow since Day 1. Lent unfortunately coincided with the craziest time of my career, when I got a new job that I’m still getting used to and the NCAA Tournament came to town. And the only consolation I received was a fast meal, usually from Taco Bueno.

Have I mentioned how glad I am to be somewhat back in the world of sports journalism? It feels like home.

But I’ve cooked dinner every night, brought my lunch to work and even taken my own cans of Diet Coke to the office. I’ve gotten lucky, too. For some reason, Netflix gave me a free month of service. I had a luncheon to go to and my friend Frances is helping me out by paying my way. I was able to buy the staples at the grocery store. I have plenty of pet food… as long as Leon doesn’t go on an eating binge.

Now if I could just find some trash bags… I might borrow some from my workplace. Or use paper bags from the store. Or just throw it on the ground, hobo-style. Canyou compost paper towels?

That’s another thing: I’ve got paper towels and toilet paper. I would spend my last dollar on making sure those things are stocked. I won’t live in an uncivilized world without paper towels. I am not a barbarian.

Really, all these decks I’ve stacked against myself came down, and I’m still in a great mood. I don’t have money, but I’ve got health (finally… I was sick for a week, hence the lack of Garish Chicken posts), I’ve got a computer I can surf and write with, and I’ve got friends who I adore.

And I’ve always got Netflix. I spent my sick week watching streaming episodes of “Friday Night Lights,” and kind of got strung out on that show. Tim Riggins, I want to marry you. Not the real person. Tim Riggins.

Oh, and I’ve got an account at the Press Club should I really, really need a cheeseburger or a beer. Come Friday, that may sound pretty good.

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Charlie Sheen, the true Wizard of Id

I’ve never had a Charlie Sheen moment. It’s disgraceful.

Charlie Sheen in Ferris Bueller

My favorite Charlie moment: As a stoner in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off"

But really, I’ve never been so full of confidence, so monumentally convinced of my perfection, and it’s just sad. If Tiger Blood was really what’s doing it, I’d say “Let’s go get some,” but I love tigers and don’t want to see their blood being savagely removed from their bodies. Of course, they’d probably rip our faces off if we came within 20 yards of them with a syringe.

Now THAT would be a funny sitcom moment.

While part of me thinks this whole Sheen fiasco is an act, I also see a man running totally on Id, or as About.com defines, “The personality component made up of unconscious psychic energy that works to satisfy basic urges, needs, and desires. The id operates based on the pleasure principle, which demands immediate gratification of needs.”

Sounds about right, eh?

I know this is going to surprise some of you, but prepare yourselves: The Garish Chicken isn’t as pure as dewy children’s tears. I’ve seen my share of train wrecks, and been a partial one a few times. I’ve had close friends whose lives have spiraled out of control, one in particular. She abused drugs for years, and when she got “clean” (I use quotes because I’ll never know if she really truly was clean) she became erratic and unbelievably Id-dy. It was all about her. She’s always had a mean streak, but it got meaner and more prevalent. She became a nuisance. She was out of control. She eventually started using drugs again, maybe not to the level she had, and she was intolerable. We are no longer friends.

Charlie Sheen will lose a lot of friends over his Id addiction, and if he is truly clean, I suspect he’s going through what this former friend went through.

I really do hope he doesn’t completely lose custody of his children, and I hope a great majority of this behavior is just a cry for attention or need for publicity. Maybe it’s a talented agent’s ploy to get his client in the spotlight. Maybe it’s a Joaquin Phoenix-esque plot for a documentary. Who knows?

All I know is, I am ready to hear about somebody else, someone who’s fully using all three parts of their personality.  And really, if you’re going to use an animal-based product, shouldn’t it always be Sex Panther?

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Filed under Brain Disorders, Fun!, General Nonsense

I suggest “Tony-Danza-ing.”

I don’t usually comment on celebritards, but who can resist all this Sheeny stuff going on?

Play the game. It’s fun. You will LOVE IT. And I do suggest “Tony Danza-ing” for “sexual gerund.”

Enjoy.

Stark-Raving Mad Libs: vanityfair.com.

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