too much talking

There comes a time in life when you learn you are a loud person. And at some times, you may be too loud. That time for me was approximately 9:35 this morning.

I went to the doctor because I had a horrible earache that was causing me massive headaches. Finding that none of the drugs I had were helping, I figured she could do something. After poking around my head for 15 minutes, I was diagnosed with TMJ.

I have sprained my mouth from screaming on said roller-coasters last weekend!

So, I have to wait for the next 3 to 4 weeks for this to heal itself... no good pain meds... just lots of rest and minimal talking.

FML.

indiana insights

Embarking on an epic journey, I headed to Indiana last Thursday to see a friend for the last time before she heads off to California. I might add that by friend, she might be more like me than anyone else I know. She's smart, bitchy, funny, likes to drink, fun to be around, straightforward, and all together awesome. She does have about a foot on me though. As I often do, I learned some interesting things about myself and others on this journey.

First, the map quest directions said it would take me 4 hours and 24 minutes to get from my work to Texas Road House (where Emily works). So I planned about 3 1/2 hours. As I approached the intersection of 90 and 294, I decided to stay with the directions and take 90. Wrong choice. After going 40 miles in 2 hours (which I later smartly calculated to 20 miles per hour) through the Windy City I made a life choice. I will never live in Chicago.

Once I finally arrived, 5 1/2 hours later, we headed to the bar. There, we found an annoying 34-year old woman who decided my friend Ray would be her prey for the evening. It was in the light of her drunk eyes that I found out I look like a 34-year old. Now, I think most people might find this offensive. I however, cannot wait to be 30 (flirty and fun). Lesson learned here: avoid annoying drunk ladies over the age of 35 at the bar.

Friday went pretty normal. Until we went to the scariest bar on the planet. I thought campus got a little sketchy being in the ghetto and all. I WAS WRONG. Four-minutes into our stay I thought I was going to die. Ten minutes later I was too tipsy to care. I learned that night to be friendly to everyone who walked into the bar. You never know who has a pistol... or when the next bar fight will be.

Saturday I spent the day screaming like a baby on some of the biggest life-threats, aka. roller coasters, in the world at King's Island. While I found some good kiddie coasters by the end of the day, dangling in my seat 200 feet in the air and climbing to 230-feet to fall at 80 mph at a 74% grade left me voiceless and crying. Driving home that night (after a brief consideration to drive an additional 2 hours at midnight to see a friend in Columbus) I realized just what a difference a wind shield makes.

Sunday, I over came all obstacles. Or my biggest obstacle- getting lost. After sitting for a half hour going less than a tenth of a mile on I-65, I pulled out my map. Maybe one of the most dangerous life decisions I could have made. I found my own route, off-roaded it in my Grand Prix, and headed to State Road 41. This went well for about 30 minutes until I realized it didn't connect with the right highway. Thanks goodness for Cassie at OnStar... she kept me from hours of wondering around BFE Indiana.

All and all, it was a successful trip, especially for a lost, scared 34-year old.

laundry lover

Have you ever had your entire life crumble to pieces due to one trip to the laundry mat?  If you haven't, feel lucky.  The simplistic yet horrifying events have in fact taken place in my life recently and if you are not careful, it could happen to you.

While I am not what some call a laundry god, I do know my fair share.  Or, have learned my fair share.  I spent the first year of college putting the detergent in the wrong spot and on multiple occasions, forgot to turn the dryer on.  Of course, this always happened in the dorm and usually when someone was around to ridicule me.  And there was the occasion of running into the love-of-my-life (turned shy, weird boy) whilst bent over displaying my granny panties to the world.  

But even after these incidences, I had a strong feeling, want, and wish that these lessons would prepare me for meeting a suitable match while separating my lights and darks.  I mean, it happens in the movies, right.  Boy, was I wrong.

A few days ago I was doing a small (i.e. 3 loads) bit of laundry at the Maytag (no, they do not pay me, they just have a monopoly where I live).  I was quietly reading my book and waiting for my clothes to dry.  Side not, I dry EVERYTHING.  If it was made past the year 2000, it should survive in a dryer.  I was trying to ignore the screaming 5-year-old running around the place and attempting not to listen to my neighbors conversation.   It's always interesting there; you have a mix of students and then those who live in the surrounding ghetto.  Fun times.

As I got up to go get my things, I spot a cute guy out of the corner of my eye.  (Enter classy, lovey dovey music).  However, instead of make quick eye contact, this guy proceeds to stare at me as I walk to the dryer and go through all of my clothes.  I turn around, and he's still staring.  Not moving his glance.  Not trying to act cool.  Being creepy and stalkerish.  I throw my mostly damp "dried clothing" into a bag and high-tailed out.  Crushed that my life-long dream of meeting the perfect guy while performing a hated chore like Cinderella would not end happily ever after.

So, the next time you see a cute laundry scene in a movie like Big Daddy, don't even bother to think it could happen to you.  As for me, I will wait patiently in my castle for Prince Charming to slay a dragon to get to me.

dear scary late night commercials

Dear Scary Late-Night TV Commercials,

I think my greeting says it all: you are scary.  As one of the world's jumpiest people, I do not appreciate you.  While I understand you do have your place in society, i.e. before Saw 900 or some equivalent of bad story and blood, and know that some humans actually like you; you DO NOT have a right to interrupt my marathon of sappy chick flicks.  Especially at 2 in the morning.

First, I am not asleep because I cannot sleep.  Some man with a chain-saw and a scary mask does not lead to sweet dreams and does not make me any more wanting to place my head on a pillow and dream about you.

Second, as my love life is already dwindling, you intruding on my romantic comedy reminds me of the actually reality of what I am watching.  Which is none.  

Finally, anyone who may want to watch you will not be watching the Wedding Date or 10 Things I Hate About You or 2 Weeks Notice or Mean Girls etc.  While I enjoy watching Lindsey Lohen getting publicly ridiculed, that does not me I want to see her head cut off with a chain saw.  

Please, think about your audience and who you want to market to.  Stop wasting your time scaring me.

Much Appreciated,

Lindsey

i saw the fink run and it opened up my eyes

As many of you know, I had quite the Cross Country career in High School.  Well, that's if you don't count the knee problem, poor nutrition, broken ankle and pure laziness that I encountered.  Let's rephrase: I had quite a successful season of Cross Country.  But I'll skip to the point... my last 5k race was 5 years ago and sense then my running has included breaks, a ridiculously slow pace or beer.  (I'm talking a literal beer run here.  Long story short, it was the fastest sprint ever.  I don't let much get in the way of me and my tequila).

I've become what some experts describe as "out of shape."  This didn't bother me for a while, I could use the elliptical or bike like no other, I have finally 100% committed to run a half marathon with 2 different people.  (My current belief is that if I run 50% with each of them it equals 100).  

Great plan.  Introduce the "Almost Housewives of Milwaukee" a soon-to-be pod cast (or, more likely, an almost pod cast).  I have a group of 4 attractive, funny, and alcoholic friend who have turned ourselves into 45-year old women 3 times a week.  Or at least what we hope to be like in 20 years.  We now go on "mom walks" which include a huffing and puffing mile followed by a stroll around the city before heading home to put the kids to bed and feed the husband.  I really enjoyed this stage of my life.

As all great things do, this stage grew into our "half marathon training" or my daily slice of hell.  Don't get me wrong, I like to run.  In perfect conditions.  Downhill.  But the thing is, it's hard to find a 13-mile stretch downhill in good conditions around Milwaukee.  Instead, my trusty trainer Kathleen bribes me into running up hills and around the city.  This may be slightly dramatic.  We have a four-mile course, we run about 2 1/2 of those miles, with walks in between, and we've only done that twice.

Enter Milwaukee's array of summer festivals.  Enter Rosemary.  Enter a 5k.  Put those together and I got sucked into running a 5k.  

So last night I headed downtown with 3 friends to test my (lack of) athletic ability.  As soon as we got there I ran into a problem.  There were people.  Lots of people.  And when I am drunk or just hanging out, I love people.  But as soon as I do a sit up or run a block a want nothing to do with anything else that breathes oxygen.  Personal preference.  We got to the starting line with the other 4,000 cattle and waited to dash.

I do have to give the organizers some create, we only had to walk the first 45 seconds.  Although I would have preferred to do that all 3 miles, we picked up the pace fast.  And then it went like this.

.5 miles- I'm going to die, why are we running up hill.  But we set our pace with the 8-year olds in front of us.

.7 miles- Rosmary pulls  out her phone to listen to music.  We rocked out to some MIA as some guy who had obviously just ran the Boston Marathon found it appropriate to comment on our texting.  Excuse us for trying to provide some entertainment.

.8 miles- Contemplate cutting through the park.  Decide we don't want to get in trouble for texting and cutting.

1.0 mile!- Downhill... finally.

1.5 miles- Pass up water station, sprint back to water table.

2.0 miles- Shin splints set it.  I'm so glad I just paid 125 dollars for shoes to fix this problem.  Decide I will keep running until we go back up hill.

2.1 miles- Start to doubt previous decision.

2.5 miles- Some stanbyer yells we're halfway down.  The entire racing crowd turns on her and yells back that she's a lier.  That's what she gets for trying to be supportive.  And lazy.

2.7 miles- Kathleen taunts me into finishing the race.  That, and the lady running with her 2 month old in the stroller passing me.

2.8 miles- We pass up the beer station.  The first time I can readily remember passing up free booze IN MY LIFE.

3.1 MILES!!! We made.  33 minutes of pain, sarcasm and more pain and we sprinted slowly to the finish line.

From here, they ran out of cups for water.  As much as I like sharing water with all of Milwaukee, we snuck our own bottle and walked around the festival like sweaty hobos drinking out of a gallon of water.  

Looking back (all of 12 hours) I'm glad I finished it.  It kind of sucks though, now I can't tell Kathleen that 3 miles is too far for our training.  I'll have to come up with a new excuse.  Like death.

the drunk dyer

I've always been infatuated with my hair.  From the first time my South African exchange student brushed bleach through my dark brown hair turning me into an two-toned preteen with an attitude, I fell in love with hair dye.  I've been blond, black and at about all stages in between.  I've diced my own hair, not only at the age of four but at 20 as well.  Needless to say... it's an addiction.

Then came Val.  The love of my life... well, if the love of my life could be a 40-year old gay man.  Needless to say, we've been going steady for 2 1/2 years after my move to Milwaukee left me dull and flat.  He's been there through my almost relationships, my drunken stories, and of course the many lengths and colors of my hair.  Most of my friends use him now too, after they get my permission first.  And those who don't, I don't like very much anyways.

My most recent adventure involved a bottle of vodka (well, most of my adventures do) and a bad choice of hair color.  I had gone blonde for my best friend's wedding (a whole different adventure in itself) and decided I wanted to go back to my natural color.  So after a mixed drink (or so)  I ripped my first plastic glove and fumbled with the other.  I spent the next 10 minutes spreading the brown cream all over my hair, face, arms, bathroom sink, floor, and bra.  I spent the next 15 minutes scrubbing my skin raw so I wouldn't stain and headed back to my kitchen to make another drink.  

By the time I hopped in the shower to rinse out the color, I was pretty tipsy (I think most people call it drunk, however, I hold myself to a different standard).  I rinsed most of the color out dried off, put on some makeup and got my roommates approval of my artwork.  I then headed to the bar for ladies night.

When I woke up the next morning at noon, I was so miserable I couldn't remember how I had gotten home the night before (thanks goodness for busting in on random neighbors and sharing salsa with my roommate and my foot).  I rolled out of bed... or maybe I made a thud... whatever, and walked to my mirror where I saw a hung over girl with purple hair.  Wait... it was a hung over girl with purple hair speckled with blonde.

Despite my horror, I figured out how to fix it so I couldn't tell.  As long as I couldn't see how bad it looked, I figured neither could anyone else.  After two weeks, I figured it had been long enough and bought another box of cheap color and dyed it again, sans vodka.  I got better coverage but still have a mixture of black/brown/red/purple hair.  Makes a mother proud I'm sure.

I finally worked up the courage to call Val and admit my mistake... after all... most drunken mistakes end in pregnancy.  I was put on a strict diet of clarifying shampoo and no conditioner and I'm taking my hair into the doctor next Tuesday.

A Whole New Journey

As I sat in bed last night pondering what had just taken place, I decided I needed to blog.  I beg my cousin to blog about her days in S. Korea, but really, why is Korea better than Milwaukee?  I lie an exciting life filled with drunkapades and randomness.  I share my stories.  Why don't I just write them down.

We've all tried our fair share of diaries, journals, and zanga accounts.  But frankly, those are dumb.  While I did enjoy reliving my first relationship through my innovative writings in my "boys are stupid, throw rocks at them" journal, I stopped caring.  But my theory is I will have to tell my stories much less if people can read them, and I am lazy.

Who knows... one day I may have my own hip mini-series.