Why Michigan should beat the Bucks soon

In honor of the Superbowl and all things football, here’s a topic that’s near and dear to me: sports rivalries.

Now before the Buckeye nation sets me ablaze for treason, let me explain. As a life-long Bucks fan, born in raised in the heart of it all, I bleed scarlet–metaphorically and literally. There’s no better team to root for in my book because there’s just no better team.  Had to squeeze some shameless praise in there somewhere.

That being said, every kick-ass football team needs a kick-ass rivalry. In addition to these ingredients, we have a few more that make for a decades-long rivalry: hard-core fans, neighboring states, colorful coaches, great universities and buckets of spite.

The Ohio State-Michigan rivalry is as old and epic as collegiate football itself. Which is why the Wolverines need to kick it in the ass and beat us. For a rivalry to be truly great, both teams have to win on occasion. Otherwise the rivalry fizzles. The Bucks have beat the Wolverines eight out of the last nine years. Come on, Wolverines. It’s no fun when you lay down and play dead. Fight back, would ya?

Take a look at the Browns-Steelers rivalry. Yes, it’s still going on but not like it used to be back in the 70’s and 80’s, you know, when my beloved Brownies used to actually win. The less competition between the two teams, the less the fans care and the less they’re willing to pay to see the game. That’s right franchise owners, rivalries affect your bottom line. Would I pay out the ass to see the Browns beat the Steelers in Cleveland. Abso-freaking-lutely. And it was rather nice this year, you know, despite the frostbite.

You can bet your sweet touchback that tickets for the next Steelers-Browns game are going to cost you a kidney on the black market. And next time the Steelers will play way better ball–another great thing about rivalries–they inspire  better performances from the teams. Teams obviously want to beat every other team, but they REALLY want to beat those dastardly [insert mascot here.] Because rivalries capitalize on heart, not ability. And many times, heart is a hell of a lot stronger.

I’m not saying I’m gonna like it–I’m going to be mad as a hornet and drunk as a…well, a Bucks fan–bad combination. So maybe you should do it in the Big House rather than the Horseshoe. But I’ll recover because I know it’s what’s best for OSU in the long run. So please Michigan, do all us Bucks a favor and win next time.

Dr. Quinn

Yes, as in medicine woman. That’s one of the nicknames lovingly given to me by my Big sister/best friend Karin. And honestly, it’s probably the most fitting as far as nicknames go. Well, Yackie is a close second. Let me explain.

My medical knowledge stems from my mother, a registered nurse by profession. Being a nurse’s kid, I grew up hearing a lot of medical jargon and hanging around the hospital. Add to that the influence of my mother’s best friend, Margie, a Yale-educated super doc, and you can understand why I’ve got medicine on the brain.

Plus I was just a really inquisitive kid. We’d always have pens and notepads at home with names of medicines and I’d ask my

mom what each of them did and she’d rattle off their drug classifications and potential side effects. Sidenote–try being the only kid in the 5th grade with Viagra pens. As if being a husky 11-year-old isn’t hard enough.

In addition to my nosy nature, I was an adolescent hypochondriac. I’d spend hours sifting through my mom’s medical journals comparing my symptoms (headache) to the symptoms of actual diseases. Turns out I never once had meningitis. Damn, I was pretty sure about that one.

And that’s how Dr. Quinn came to be. Whenever someone had a prescription drug or ailment question, they’d call Dr. Quinn (or have Dr. Quinn call her mother.) And every time they’d say “How do you know that??”  You can thank my neurotic and compulsive need to self diagnose and Sherry.

And now my friends know more about NSAIDS and Z-Packs that most LPN’s do.

Dr. Quinn’s work here is done.

The pros and cons of being emo

Emo as in emotional, not emo as in guys wearing skinny jeans and eyeliner. Blugh.

Long story short I used to be an ice queen. I didn’t cry at seemingly emotional things. High school graduation? Please. I was beaming. Sappy crappy emo shows on TV? Not a tear. My best friend and I used to laugh about how stone cold we were–couldn’t cry during soul-crushing movies or anything.

Then there was a death and breakup and it was almost like the scene in the Grinch Who Stole Christmas where his heart grew three sizes that day. My compassion for others and my tear ducts kicked into overdrive and ever since then I’ve been Suzie Sobber.

And a few months ago I tried to ice over the old heart again. It was a culmination of a few things. First and foremost, not being sure if love is real. Obviously parent-child love is real and family love is real, but love love–I have my doubts about it. I definately think the thought of it is real–what we chase after we feel is real but the thing itself? I’m not completely convinced. The evidence isn’t in its favor.

Second, the damn thing hasn’t been used in so long it’s practically flash freezing itself. And third, I’m feeling more and more like my old self. And old self is not a good thing in this case. Old, ice queen self didn’t really feel anything or desire to.

And I gotta tell ya–life as an ice queen is so easy. Life when you give a damn is just so up and own and here and there and it’s exhausting. Life when your feelings are shut off is like a nice, light-hearted sitcom, versus life with feelings which is somewhere between an episode of Intervention and the Grey’s Anatomy where Denny died. It just takes too much out of you.

But then Christmas came around and it was harder and harder to keep the old icebox icy. Plus I’ve always had a soft spot for midnight mass–the thought of little baby JC having to be born outside with Oh Holy Night playing in the background reduces me to tears every time. Damn you little baby JC!

But in all honesty, feeling things more deeply is more rewarding. Exhausting, yes,  but rewarding. A life with no emotion is easy but empty. But right now I need easy–I’ve had too much emotion for too long. 2010 can be my breather.

I’ve thrown away my life for Twitter followers

My fellow sorority sister and young PR pro and I have had many a conversation about the anxiety that other young PR pros give us. When she first made the switch to PR from journalism, I think she was a little taken back at the level of dedication, shall we say,  to the industry.

It’s a never-ending game of keeping up with the PR Jonses. Welcome to marcom–it’s a doozy.

“How in the name of God do they find time to do all this crap?!” we’d ask each other. How do you cram four hours worth of homework, two three-page papers, a long jog and enough sleep to function into three hours??

Don’t gimme that time management line of doopa. Personally, I like to think that someone is hiding a nasty amphetamine habit, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Aubs, All I can say is that we enjoy life more. Husbands, babies, family, fun, friends, love–that’s what life’s about. I don’t wanna be on my deathbed thinking  ’OMG I’ve thrown my life away for Twitter followers.”

I’m not saying screw your career–to Hell with the job–live like you’re dying tomorrow! Not hardly. Do you know what would happen if you lived like you were dying tomorrow? You’d blow through your life savings and eat like Shamu and in a week you’d be flat broke and crazy fat. Bad idea.

I’m just saying prioritize your life. I enjoy public relations, and I always give my work my full attention. I want to be a good little employee, I enjoy kicking ass for my clients, and I like keeping abreast of industry news. But I also understand what makes for a fulfilling and satisfying existence on this earth–and, unfortunately, it doesn’t always involve a paycheck.

A controversial four letter word

Let me preface this post by saying the inspiration for it came from a friend of mine who was afraid to use the term “Jews” for fear it was offensive. Jews? As in Jewish people? You think?

“You can totally say Jews,” I assured him. “It’s just like Christian. ‘Christians’ is the noun you use when talking about Christian people right? Well Jewish people are called Jews. They need a noun too. All my Jewish friends say ‘Jews.’” I reasoned.

Then I wondered if “Jews” was one of those things that you can only say if you are one. So I did the only responsible thing–I called my Jewish friends.

The consensus was that although “Jews” has often been used as a derogatory term in the past, it’s not a bad word or offensive word when used correctly. And just to be safe I Googled it. Phew.

I grew up in the most culturally and ethnically non-diverse town imaginable. Great to place to grow up, just saying it was very white and Christian. Polish, German or Irish–that’s all the diversity there was.

Enter Kent State. All different colors and races and religions. Although I came from quite the homogeneous place, I never had a problem with anyone who was different than me.

Quite the opposite–my best friend was ( in her own words) “Italebanese,” my favorite dance club partner in crime was a girl on the step team who didn’t think a thing about bringing me with her to Black Greek Council events and initiations, even when I was the only white person in the entire auditorium. One of my best friends married a Muslim guy, which is how I learned about Ramadan. College was like a mini model UN, and I was Switzerland because I got along with everyone.

And then I met my sorority sister, Elyse, and the Jewish phenomenon began in my life. As I’ve previously said, Elyse is quite the little East Coast socialite. She was glamorous and fabulous and so different. Good different. And she was cu-razy Jewish. Elyse is one girl who adores what she is and where she comes from–Jersey. Le sigh.

And the next few years of my life became a crash course in Judaisim 101, as I’d ask what the hell she was talking about when she peppered our conversations with Yiddish and what the hell she was eating when she ordered corned beef on rye.

She explained the phenomenon that is JDate and the difference between Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews (and let’s not forget Mizrahi Jews. Much love to you too.)

I got so accustomed to Jewish expressions, language and general culture that it never occurred to me that some people might actually use the word “Jew” in a derogatory manner. It just didn’t make sense to me. But when do hate and intolerence ever make sense?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still down with my man Jesu in a big way–not looking to convert or anything–but even Jesu was a Jew. How ya gonna hate on J.C.’s own people like that? And if you don’t believe in J.C., well, a Jew gave us Seinfeld. That’s reason enough right there.

So yes, I will continue to use the word “Jew” unless instructed otherwise by my Jewish friends, because to me it could never be offensive. When that word leaves these lips it’s always said sweetly and with the best intentions. Not so controversial to me.

Hiatus from blogging

I hate a lot of things right now. Pretty much everything except me I’m good with me. But everything else is iffy.

I feel like my writing is getting a little too negative–and although some of my best work comes out when I’m seriously pissed off, I hate my readers to have a skewed perception of who I really am.

I’m a pretty happy gal. I like smiling and sunny days and puppies. I don’t like being in a sour mood–I hate it actually. I feel like a day spent being pissy is a day wasted.

That being said, my week has been one shit storm after the other–a shitty week to top all shitty weeks. Unless I get hit by a bus tomorrow, I’m not sure it could feel much worse. See? Told ya I’m in a bad mood.

So until my mood gets a little closer to normal, I’m taking a quick break from the blog. Maybe I’ll take the extra time to pick up yoga or some other mood enhancing hobby. Normally I’d have a cocktail but I’ve given up booze til I shed some pounds.

Like I said, it’s been a super week.

You’d think I was Mother Teresa

if you saw what I got for Christmas this year. I don’t think even she was ever good enough to get a MacBook Pro from Santa.

My mother spent her boob job money on a MacBook so I could keep up with the PR Joneses. The woman gave up nice bubbies so I could advance my career. It’s the most selfless thing anyone has ever done for me. I was speechless and then I squealed like a little piggy and said “shut up” approximately 11 times.

Oh, and it’s the one with the light up keyboard. I freaking love the ones with the light up keyboard! Hehehahahoho!! BEST. PRESENT.EVER.

And I say my mother because Dad knew nothing about it. He mentioned more than once that “if it were up to me, you wouldn’t have the damn thing.” Merry Christmas to you too Grizzly Adams.

I hate when people deviate from the Christmas list, but I think I can make an exception in this case. Te amo, little MacBook, te amo.

Good riddance 2009

I know I said I’d make myself go out for NYE this year. Well it turns out NYE can kiss my Scottish-Irish ass because no good has ever come from December 31.

On top of the shitteous track record NYE has with me, there’s going to be a blue moon tonight. I don’t care what anyone says, there is a direct correlation between full moons and freak accidents, injuries, disastrous evenings etc.  So I’m barricading myself in the house with my .22 (accidentally left the garage door open all day….could be creepers hiding out in the basement or something) and some Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice. Party animal, right?

And at midnight I’ll kiss my MacBook Pro because I like it more than any man.

Not to sound negative, but 2009 was effing awful for me. Granted, I did graduate from college, but that’s not really a big accomplishment in my book. I started college, clearly I was going to finish it. And an undergraduate degree is the new high school diploma, so no, I’m not all that proud about college graduation.

In 2009 my brother got deployed to Afghanistan.I gained 15 pounds.  I moved back in with my parents. I was unemployed and in dire financial straits. I consoled a friend –and myself–who was diagnosed with a terminal disease. I helped a friend break off her engagement to her cheating (pig bastard) fiance. I gained 15 pounds. I didn’t resolve or dissolve any of the issues in my love life–they may have actually gotten worse. I watched Alzheimer’s slowly take my grandmother’s memory. I gained 15 pounds.

So like I said, 2009 can suck it. 2010 has got to be a better year because there’s nowhere to go but up. So happy 2010 world I don’t like the idea of resolutions, but here are some things I’d like to do in 2010:

Appreciate my parents more. I know I complain about them a lot, but it’s only because they’re really friggin annoying–kidding, kidding. They’re great people and they spoil my ass rotten (ahem MACBOOK.) So I’m going to work on being better to them.

Keep humoring Grann. She’s got Alzheimer’s and she can’t remember crap about crap. I feel like I should keep up the charade though, because she gets upset when you correct her. Even though she thinks I’m still dating the same person and in high school, I’ll just go along.

Wear more heels. I’ve got a pretty decent collection that I rarely even wear because my delicate little tootsies always hurt after a half hour. Well I’m not getting any younger and these gams aren’t getting any longer and they could use a little help. Heels everyday from now on. Ok, every other day.

Keep up with the manicures. I got a delayed graduation present from a friend today–french tips to make these little pig hooves of mine look more lady like. I forgot how good attractive hands feel! Plus my mother’s been preaching proper nail maintenance for years.

Blog my blogging heart out. Turns out people actually read this thing. Whatever that’s about. Right on, I might as well make someone laugh with my embarrassing life stories.

Be sexier. I feel like my appearance went by the wayside in 2009 becauseof school, job etc. What the hell? If I can’t be hot at 22, when can I be hot? Fix bod, drop pounds, tease hair, highlight accordingly, apply bronzer–in that order.

Get my arse to London. Ideally I want to live there for a while–you know, just long enough to snag myself a R.Patz look-alike, breed with him and allow my Brit babies to pick up the accent. But I’d settle for another vacation there.

Clean house with the exes again. I did it two years ago and it was the best decision I’ve made in a decade. Not necessarily all of them have to go, but I need to figure out which ones are staying around and which ones I’m deleting from life. Besides, emotional baggage is so 2009.

Go visit brosef at grad school. He doesn’t even know where he got accepted yet, but please GOD let it be Columbia, because I really like New York

Balance my budget. Or don’t go broke, I should say. I’m helpless and awful with money. Basically I like Starbucks and road trips and shopping which is hell on the debit card. I’m going to make a conscious effort to manage my finances in 2010. And if that means supplementing my checking account with paychecks from ZLB Plasma, so be it.

Are you out of your mother flipping mind?

That was my first thought in response to “So does that mean you’re gonna have a baby soon?”

A girl I went to high school with who just had a baby asked me that because I said “Aww, I love babies,” when I saw  her little guy.

An inordinate number of friends my age are shitting out kids at an alarming rate. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t judge and married or not, I have no grief with it. That’s your business. But do I want to have a kid right now? About as much as I want to contract herpes.

Like I said, I absolutely adore children, but I’m not exactly parent material at this stage. Nor do I have a  man. Last time I checked you need male anatomy to make one of those things so not anytime soon.

Also, I’m broke. Painfully, embarrassingly, sell- your- blood- plasma broke. How the hell would I raise a kid? I can’t afford Ramen, how would I afford diapers?

Next, I’m just working on getting  a semi-decent figure back after the clusterf**** that was my 21st year of life.  I’m not ruining all that hard work just yet! I just now fit back in my jeans you buncha crazies.

So in short, no. No babies. Try me when I’m 30 something.

An open letter to “The Plastics”

No, not the bitchy brat pack from Mean Girls, the bitchy brat pack from my old high school. Background: a girlfriend of mine now teaches high school science at our alma mater.

Being the friend who “kept it real,” we toyed with the idea of bringing me in as a “motivation speaker and/or life coach” to talk some sense into these snarling hag bags. Being as the school board wouldn’t like that too much, I opted for a letter.

So this is for you class of 2012 divas:

Dear Plastics,

First of all listen to Ms. Smith*, she’s really smart, and she’s my friend, and if you give her a hard time I’ll tell your parents I saw you smoking cigarettes in the church parking lot. I’m 22, I’ve got way more street cred that you–they will believe me and you will be grounded. So play nice.

Second, here’s the deal about grades. I know it’s cool to act like you don’t care and to fail chemistry but there’s this thing called college and it’s sort of a big deal. If your grades suck like they do now you won’t get into college and you’ll be forced to work at Taco Bell forever, slaving away in a Cheesy Gordita Crunch hell. Do you want to work at Taco Bell forever? Didn’t think so.

And even if you do get into college, no sorority will have you because your high school GPA sucks big time–and yes, we care about grades. In a big, bad, anything less than a 3.5 and you are so cut from our list kind of way. Plus, no one looks good in stupid–it’s like chartreuse.

Third, stop with this whole “Plastics” things. You don’t have s*** on Regina George. And for that matter, who would actually want to build their reputation around being a merciless, soulless biznatch? I’d much rather be an Elle Woods or some fictional character with a congenial disposition. Besides, Elle ended up getting the job and the man. Regina ended up in a metal halo. Karma much?

Fourth, if you dress like a hoochie, expect boys to treat you like one–and expect the office secretaries to gossip about you. They’re quite the Chatty Cathys. Not to say you can’t dress to impress, but remember Missoni’s golden rule–only one body part exposed at a time. Either legs, or back or chest, not all three at once.

So there’s my advice, take it or leave it. But no one’s going to dry those tears when you get a rejection letter from Kent State . And yes, I’m allowed to say it, I went there.

Love,
A concerned alumna

*names have been changed for the protection of the innocent.