Saying it Out Loud and Meaning it

Following your dreams is super sticky, tricky stuff. In one moment, you’re Julie Andrews prancing around the house like it’s your first time without a girdle and the next second you’re curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, shaking like a newborn deer, crying into a dirty towel you’ve been using as a bath mat. It’s emotional stuff.

This is what following your dreams looks like…

You know what the hardest part is sometimes? Saying it out loud. Admitting that you’re pathetic enough to dream. You have a childhood dream that you still strive to achieve!?! Off with your head, stupid, naive one! How dare you believe life should be filled to the brim with meaning and intent! Become a receptionist! Go into childcare — you’re a woman, you’d be super good at it! Well yeah, I am super good at it. But I’m also super good at eating an entire box of almond milk ice cream bars and blowing bubbles off my tongue so what are you trying to say?

The first step is saying it out loud and meaning it and not caring about that time Amy Poehler joked in an interview about there being no more room for funny writers in Hollywood. So yeah, that’s what I’m gonna do.

Shoulda given him to Nascar…

Your dream also can’t be getting filthy stinkin’ rich the quickest way possible because that’s a cop out and it’s a destination not an action. Being able to pay your bills, sure that’s a dream. Buying your mom a house to repay her for her love and support, of course that’s a dream. But allowing “getting rich” to be a dream is only allowing people like Fabrice Tourre to exist. Fabrice Tourre — you can call him “Fabulous Fab” — didn’t dream of making millions of dollars by selling bogus mortgage bonds to, in his words, “widows and orphans that [he] ran into at the airport.” Do you think this little sleezeball was using his Monopoly money at age six to trick people into buying shit? No, he was driving toy cars around his mother’s couch. Fabrice and guys like him were risk takers as little boys but instead of telling them to follow their dreams as Nascar drivers or Hollywood stunt men we allowed them to play risk with our money. And then we got mad when they lost it all.

So dreams will save us in the end…. Dreams help us not be douche bags in that they’re meaningful goals. Kanye and Jay-Z may sing about all the cash money they’re making but you know what? They’re living out their frigan dreams, man. (And if you’ve seen the Keeping up with the Kardashians scene with Kim and Kanye organizing her closet, you know he’s an actual human being and not just a bloated head with metal chains hanging down.

People are more genuine and honest following their dreams. They may be honestly douchey or genuinely a dick but at least it’s transparent — at least they’re not massaging your shoulders as they slowly steal the wallet out yo’ pocket.

Hello, my name is Aly and I have a dream. I dream about writing words and making people laugh. I dream about writing a show that a sixteen-year-old girl and a thirty-year-old guy can both laugh at. I dream of creating the next Abed character and working with Amy Poehler and maybe someday showing her my “Kaitlin” impression because it used to make the kids at work laugh.

And if you still don’t believe me, watch this guy change your mind/life (SO WORTH IT):

What’s your real dream?

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Shhhhh….I’m dreaming

Wait, People Actually Live Like This?

Ever since I saw The Little Princess as a girl I dreamed of sitting atop an Indian idol, being splashed by an elephant with magical people painted blue surrounding me chanting my name. Needless to say, this never happened. The closest I ever got was a trip to Mexico with an old best friend and her family — to be fair, I did have a canopy bed for a while as well. My dad would castigate me later, holding the pictured proof in his hand, that I did indeed ride an elephant in Maine once, though this memory, like most happy, childhood moments were repudiated in favor of the more painful, gritty reflections that would provide better writing material in the future.

I was sixteen years old, a little bit squishy, with fake black hair and braces. So, I had a lot going for me (essentially just boobs). The trip was intense to begin with, mostly because my friend’s mom was the manicured fingers, Bebe-bejeweled rhinestone studded shirt, I-spent-a-thousand-dollars-just-shopping-for-this-trip type of woman. But she was super fun! I spent most of the trip in an awkward state of not wanting to get in the middle of Mary and her mom’s intense tiffs about who got to wear the most bedazzled Guess shirt. My mom had me when she was forty, so we never really had the sharing closet luxury (or curse), although I do now have an extensive collection of her vintage leather boots, shoulder-padded blazers and one kick-ass pair of high-waisted, checkered, pleated pants so, I win.

We stayed at the Omni hotel in Cancun. I thought it was so fancy that I would see a celebrity but imagine my dismay when instead, I learned the time-honored lesson that there is more than one type of rich person in the world. In Mexico, you can drink at 16, or I’m making that up to feel better about fact that I drank on a family vacation at sixteen. Either way, me and Mary had margaritas on the beach while Mexican men ogled our underdeveloped goodies (‘sup puberty?). We even danced like no one was watching.

Then the adventures began. You know what’s not the funnest thing in the world when you’re paralyzed by heights? Parasailing. Do you know what they frown upon when you’re parasailing? Peeing in the air directly into the water. We only went on one parasailing trip.

If people said YOLO back when I was on this trip I would’ve spent most days saying YOLO (to be ironically non-ironic). Next on the Kardashian summer getaway, were were to go four-wheeling and then finish off the day horseback riding into the ocean. Just like any middle class American family desperately holding on to their Bill Clinton wealth would do.

“Will my personal assistant meet us there?” I thought out loud, to the amusement of no one except Ian, a friend of Mary’s family who would later invite me to his senior prom because I was “the type of girl who could burp in front of guys.” I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I had game even with braces. Mona, Mary’s mom, was complaining about the heat and her hair, which consistently looked better than mine, when I saw the machines we would be riding.

We took the bus to the spot where our day adventure would take place with the help of my high school spanish and false sense of gumption.

“Are we going sand-duning?” I asked. Our safety instructor, a mix between Antonio Banderas and Beaker, was not amused.

“What about racing? Can we race?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let’s pick teams. Can I be the captain?”

“Everyone ready to go?” Asked Beaker, clearly practiced in the art of debbie-downering.

I can make it through most days without feeling pathetic and insignificant by saying out loud to myself “I four-wheeled in the Mexican jungle.” But that’s also because I leave out the part where I’m a complete asshat:

My interpretation of how I looked attempting a wheelie

We had been wheeling through the jungle for a while when I wanted to kick things up a notch, you know, YOLO and all. Carl, Mona’s fiancée was behind me, rounding out the troops, being a typical man. Until I fooled myself into thinking I was trying out for the X-games, attempted a wheelie, and tipped over while still on my four-wheeler as me and the machine both rolled off the track and into a Mexican mud pile. Carl raced to me like any adult chaperoning an underage child that is not his or her own would.

“So, horseback riding should be fun?” I said, assuring everyone I was fine and no I wouldn’t be suing them when I got home.

At the end of the trail we arrived at the spot where we would hop on horses and ride into the sunset. Just without saddles and all that other stuff that makes riding a horse safe, enjoyable, and not feel like your hoo-ha is being assaulted by bony, four-legged beast.

Mary hopped on her horse first only to have it immediately buck her off and start naying incessantly as Mary curled into a ball screaming “Get it away! Get it away!”

This isn’t me but it is how I imagine I looked minus the clothes and dignity.

But I was promised a kodac moment of me gracefully entering the water, barebacking a horse with my new blue Quicksilver bikini. I did not anticipate the reality of me being in the sitting position for the picture — the kryptonite to any self-aware stomach-conscious teenage girl. And although I relish the memory of my horseback ride into the Mexican ocean, the superfluous amount of times my mom exhibited the picture of squishy-stomached Aly for any and everyone to see was more painful then holding in my poop all vacation for fear of the boys hearing me.

It’s always fun going on trips with other families because you get to see a new brand of dysfunction completely different from your own. Your brand is comfortable, familiar, but for everyone else it’s an episode of Intervention without the hope of someone going to rehab at the end. Whether conscious or not, I was never invited to another one of Mary’s family vacations.

Did you ever travel far with a friend’s family? How’d it go? What about vivid memories of family trips gone wrong?

Shut Up, I’m Trying to Dream Over Here!

I remember the sound of the movie, the soundtrack, playing like a hopeless romantic lullaby to young 6-year-old ears. This was my introduction into the world of entertainment and hollywood. It was the movie Bed of Roses. OKAY, I realize that at six years old, you probably shouldn’t be watching an idyllic romance about a lonely woman who finds herself with the help of a mysterious florist who delivers her flowers after peering into her window and watching her cry. (Christian Slater at his best.) But to me, the movie was enchanting, mostly because Mary Stuart Masterson had my haircut and there was an actress named Aly. By age seven, I had grand ambitions of being Mary Stuart Masterson, starring in my own movie, and producing and recording the soundtrack.

I wanted to be an actor, a singer, a purveyor of twisted plot lines and quick witted retorts. I wanted to make everyone laugh but not in the way everyone laughed when my brother shoved cake in my face at my fifth birthday party. I wanted to be in all of the televisions!

I had an explosive imagination — I believed I could fly up until about age seven because I would climb my picnic table in the backyard and think really hard as I flapped my arms like bony little girl wings, fooling myself into believing I got a little higher each time. So becoming the female lead in a major motion picture didn’t seem too farfetched — I was already a little obsessed with myself and had already proudly garnered the nickname Ms. Photogenic. The amount of times my mother would explain to me, after I came home crying because the popular girls wouldn’t let in their beanie baby club, “Oh! They’re just jealous of you because you’re so special and beautiful and talented!” may have had something to do with my attitude.

I also had no problem rationalizing my dreams — it is what I wanted to do therefore it would happen (American attitude, much?). Oddly enough, I still have this outlook — If you can’t believe in yourself how do you expect your seventh grade Creative Writing teacher to choose your story for the famed wall of story-telling?

So, I did a lot of things to reach my dreams. Mainly I begged my parents to let me take lots of lessons — I had just learned the word novice from watching Family Feud and it did NOT seem like something I wanted to be. Guitar lessons, or the worst idea for a young girl with bony, child fingers were first and I quit after it hurt my fingers too much to play with my polly pockets. All the while I wrote plays in my journal where I was the star and my older brother’s cute best friend was the male lead. I had my priorities straight at a young age.

After guitar lessons, however, my parents were a little less inclined to drop serious cash to suit the whims of their seven-year-old soon-to-be starlet. Singing lessons were off the table so I’d have to settle for wearing glittery, blue, borderline Show Girl costumes at dance competitions like I was trying out for Toddlers and Tiaras. However, I did get some encouragement from Kaitlin, the overweight girl from down the street I played with before I became a social-standing-obsessed preteen (I’m sorry, Kaitlin). I was singing Mariah Carey’s “Always be My Baby” when Kaitlin looked at me and asked if I took lessons.

How to make your child have self-esteem issues volume one.

“No,” I said, my head inflating with every breath, “you know, I just think raw talent works itself out.” I was an awful ten-year-old egotist with larger than life dreams and a My-Size Barbie to offer emotional support.

Acting didn’t come till middle school (which is also where it ended) when I joined the improv club after school because Mr. G was the hip new teacher and my parents still didn’t take my hollywood hankerings seriously. I pretty much sparked a riot of hilarity with my impression of a person doing the backstroke! It was GOLDEN.

Hit role in elementary school play, “Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise”

Obviously the next step was to try out for the school musical, You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown with a rendition of Britney Spears’ “Hit me Baby One More Time.” I remember staring into the trash can my entire performance and thinking to myself, I bet Mary Stuart Masterson didn’t have to go through this shit. Britney let me down that day, like she would in a year’s time when my mom, brother, and I went to meet her at Copley Square only to find out she cancelled the performance due to post-Rosie O’Donnell lip-syncing rumors. Apparently, I wasn’t meant to be the next Kristen Chenoweth either.

Chasing boys on the playground, becoming “Aly Dicky” at my new school and the burgeoning prevalence of kids in after school sports overtook my performance pretensions for a while. My writing never stopped, however, and I took every opportunity available to make people laugh — I still can’t believe LaToya beat me out for “Best sense of humor” in high school (she was just louder not funnier).

Although I no longer want to be the next Mary Stuart Masterson — let’s face it, she went way downhill after Fried Green Tomatoes anyway — I still dream of being the woman in the television inspiring a young, quixotic, Tweety bird-obsessed girl (probably more like One Direction obsessed these days) to follow her larger than life dreams no matter how tone deaf she is, no matter how often no one laughs at her jokes, no matter how many times she gets beat out for class clown and no matter how stupid she feels during after school improv class.

Dreams are there for a reason, you idiots, now go do something about it.

Daily Post Memory Challenge

Customer Service Karma and Becoming a “Gym Person”

Anna has witnessed by bangs do the exact same thing (minus the man protein).

It’s as simple as when you wake up, go pee and then jump back in bed and spoon with your dog instead of staying awake. You pray you can get your shit together by 10:30 because at the moment, your right arm is entirely asleep and your hair is an enviable remake of Cameron Diaz’s in Something About Mary. Ughhh but there’s so many more episodes of Hell’s Kitchen to mindlessly stare at and having the queen bed to yourself for a few hours in the morning is just, everything.

This guilty, self-indulgent feeling is the mark of some serious karma coming your way. Feel bad about spending three hours of your life watching The Bachelorette? Of course you do. This week’s karma special: customer service.

***

“Where has she been the last few days?” is the question none of you are asking yourself right now and yet, I’m going to tell you. It all started with Groupon. Moving closer to my goal of a fulfilling career where I wear pencil skirts and Chiffon tops, I decided it was time to purchase the proper self styling tools — namely, a hair straightener. When I was an adorable four year-old camera leech, I had hair like Shirley Temple in the best way possible — all curls, no frizz. As an adult, my hair is more like Sarah Jessica Parker’s in Square Pegs.

I’m happy that my life decisions have led me to a place where this split image can exist.

Like most services you pay for, you expect a package to arrive to its intended destination, especially when Groupon has already told you it’s been delivered. But somewhere in between pissing off everyone that works in my apartment’s office, getting to know Carol the USPS lady better than i’d like, Jim, also from USPS telling me I need to “open up an investigation,” and then giving me a non-working number to contact,  I started to feel like I wasn’t going to get my package but that I might finally get to engage in a revenge plot fantasy. So I did what any white girl with a dwindling savings account and business women aspirations would do: go buy a cheap straightener at Target.

***

Flash forward a bit to me impetuously trying to finish a post on Friday before Matti gets home from work. WordPress has always been there for me, how could it now be cutting out of connectivity, unable to load pictures, and unable to load the customer support page? The internet ganged up with karma and was sticking it’s tongue at me the only way the internet knows how: by choosing which websites it will functionally load like a security guard at the airport choosing which person to search.  That’s totally fine — I didn’t spend five hours on this post already or anything and I love dealing with technical issues more than most things… said nobody, ever.

Even this cute little girl hates you, Time Warner Cable

I received an email (rather quickly) from my good friend WordPress telling me people with Time Warner Cable were having similar issues. Is Time Warner Cable a real company or is a big consumer April Fools joke? When I called up the big guys at TWC, aka Tim with customer support whose name was definitely not Tim, they told me that wireless internet is very “finicky” and do I have an ethernet hook up. Apparently TWC thinks 2001: A Space Odyssey is still a glimpse into the future because they are stuck in a pre 2000 dial-up, plug in internet world.

“You know what Tim? It’s weird but when I bought wireless internet I thought it meant that I would be provided with a working wireless connection. I must’ve missed that sales pitch when I chose your service: Our wireless is finicky but we still love your money! Should I assume every service you provide is “finicky” or is that just with the new and upcoming wireless technology?”

Time Warner Cable is so funny because it’s as if they don’t know how badly they suck. You’d think after losing CBS they’d be a little more self-aware. Tim told me a representative would be by in a few days to put a bandaid on my internet.

***

Cut to me on the couch watching Gordon Ramsey tell his contestants to piss off as I shove an almond milk ice cream bar down my gullet and contemplate the amount of ways you can cook beef cheeks.

“So I guess I’m not gonna go to the gym tonight,” I said out loud to myself, looking at Matti, as I grab and squeeze my tummy fat like a stress ball. Three hours earlier I told Matti he wasn’t allowed to not let me go to the gym that night — I think my overuse of negatives may have confused him into inaction. I GUESS I should also take responsibility for my own fitness…

So I did. The next day I went to the gym and gleefully realized they have the machines with the TVs on them. After running on the treadmill for a mile, to the surprise of myself and everyone that has ever known me, I went to the elliptical and realized the ear plug jack worked! Karma be damned — I was about to burn off the 300 calories of pure olive oil I consumed that day while watching the Kardashian/Jenners pretend to be a family on a farcically posh Greece vacation. While I subconsciously tried to out-elliptical the girl next to me as we both laughed out loud individually at Kendall’s spoiled rich girl tantrum, I had an epiphany.

I always hated running and I hated every person that ever had the audacity to claim they loved doing it. I’m sorry, I don’t believe you and if I wanted to clear my head I’d take a bath. But for first time in my life I had muscles in my stomach that were almost visible and I wasn’t going to let that change! I realized I didn’t need to have a romantic parisian love affair with running or exercising to enjoy it — I just had to be watching trashy reality television (or Shark Week). I knew I would be back at the gym when I got offended by the girl next to me not wiping down her machine after she smeared her girl sweat all over the machine.

I stopped in the mailroom on my way out of the gym for no real reason besides I wanted the lady inside to see how exhausted I looked drenched in sweat to solidify my gym experience and as I opened the box I saw a slip with the words I had been waiting two weeks to see: You have a package in the office.

Nailed it, karma.

Contest Results, Blogs You Should Read and My Favorite 90s Workout Video

Well, after surviving a customer service gauntlet the last two days I live to share my story and of course, the winner of my extremely serious and highly anticipated Prince Tengo Caption Contest. First of all, thanks to all who commented with a caption for proving people actually read my blog endorsing my absurdity.

These people rock and I’ll tell you why:

• Dettie stumbled upon my blog and had the amazing sensibility to stop and comment. Checked out her blog only to find an entertaining post about the advertising of feminine products that made me laugh out loud.
• The cleverly named, Dad It’s Okay shares new moments of fatherhood and moments he is looking forward to (which is one of the sweetest posts I’ve read).
• The brilliant Barb Taub who gave me some much needed support when my blog first started. I count on her blog for all things England and much, much more.
• The smartly funny Idiot-prufs who I could literally read for hours, presents some of the best dialogue, especially in this hilarious encounter with crunchy pudding — this post is genius.
• Newbie blogger, Mackenzie from Lies I Wrote in My Diary shares hilariously witty stories of childhood transgressions and why Wayne’s World taught her more than Annie Hall.

Thank you all for your seriously funny, clever captions and also for making me realize I am not meant to be a contest judge because it’s too hard. So basically you’re all winners. Okay, but I did think one was a little more clever than the others and this is mostly due to my extreme and unfounded love for creating fake sequel titles to movies. Lucky you, Lies I Wrote in My Diary, you are now the winner of some extremely cool pieces of paper  an awesome ninja star and one of a kind roll of US postmaster general stickers!

As for everyone else, I have free hugs for you! Just come to South Lamar Boulevard in Austin Texas to claim them — I’m such a good hugger.

P.S.- Just to give you a good parting visual, I’m going to share the video I’ve been sweating it out to lately. It stars Fabio’s beefier brother along with a buffer Saved By The Bell lookalike cast. Imagine me crunching it out to this while Tengo sits next to me licking my elbow each time I come down:

Happy crunching!

Spit Out Your Gum and Bend Your Knees, We’re Going to Skateland!

This is the women’s “fast skate” otherwise known as, “how the hell do they not crash into each other”

Welcome to adult skate night at Skateland in Austin, Texas. Walking in, I immediately like it better than my old hangout Rollerworld, because it seems more likely to be the setting of a movie starring Jessie Eisenberg – he and a Kristen Stewart type actress would work together at the ticket booth and share a cigarette outside on their break which is okay because the film takes place in the 80s. The walls are all primary colors because this place wants to be taken seriously, playfully serious. The crowd is a mix of teenage girls in high-waist booty shorts with a false sense of retro style and what appears to be retired drama teachers, wannabe thugs and very old men in the same shorts the teenage girls are wearing.

The rugs are just like my at my old digs, a black background with neon pops of stars, what appears to be the planetary system, and a myriad of other unidentifiable shapes; the mood is definitely beckoning for a simpler, more tubular time – a time where one would associate Sean Penn with Fast Times instead of Milk. And I’m totally in it — also because Anna looked like she was about to roller derby some bitches to the ground when she picked me up:

Watch out Ellen Paige…

Anna described the friend from work I was about to meet as someone I would like because she’s just like me, to which I replied, “I don’t like people who are like me.” Turned out her friend from work is exactly like me if I were a super cute tiny blonde with perfect skin and a perky disposition. (OKAY, I do have really great skin). But I was immediately grateful for her presence when she told me that she liked my hair and I looked like a rockstar — flattery is the only main route to my heart.

Cue chant: QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK

We head over to pick up skates and for some reason, whether it be the effect Anna and my beauty have on the sweaty, clumsy, roller skate attendant — who is a mix between Christopher Mintz-Plasse and The Brain (from Pinky and The Brain) — or the fact that we have on ridiculously colorful, badass long socks, we are immediately labeled as the girls that have never been here before (which I was sort of okay with). Putting on the skates didn’t help. Remember people, I was born in the 80s but just barely so the only objects I have ever put on my feet starting with the word roller are blades. For me, the rollerblading scene from Mighty Ducks was the ultimate aspiration. (Don’t even get me started on the Disney movie, Brink).

To be fair, we tried skating. We put on our “quads” and made our way, slowly, to the practice area. For a second before we put the skates on, I had fooled myself into thinking I did this before — like it was one of the many activities in my distant childhood my dad bitches at me for not remembering. But no such luck. There was no foreseeable way to turn in these things, the only thing I could think to do was walk carefully and briskly. With the skates on I morphed into awkward Gumby Aly, all limbs and no balance. Although this sultry picture may convince you otherwise:

…or just confirm the obvious.

Within minutes I looked at Anna and mouthed “rollerblades” because although I had a lot of fun bonding with Tatenda, the only one that appeared more uncomfortable than me on the kiddy rink, I am really bad at not being good at things. Anna said she knew I’d want to come with her because I’m into things like bowling, and by into she means I was in a bowling league in high school because in my high school that was the coolest activity to do on a Saturday morning (besides every other thing teenagers my age did). Really I’m just super competitive.

Rollerblade robot meets the fast-paced human world

We’re pretty sure the roller skate and blade attendant charges us more than usual for the rollerblade upgrade (yes, I consider it an upgrade) but we’re immediately no longer the worst people at the rink so all is good. It seemed like the retro mystique of the roller skates made a lot of people more comfortable with themselves than I was comfortable with. Like for instance, the referee that looked like a sausage coming up and asking Anna to dance during the couple’s skate. No thanks, it’s girls night and we’re fine sipping contraband vodka mixed with the dollar cokes we had to wait an hour for because Marjorie the fifteen-year-old concession stand attendant decided to close up shop to take a shit right as we were entering. And of course we get mobbed with the skate gang as we wait for our cokes, one of them even ended up going behind the counter to get a cup just to show us how much skater clout he  had.

I liked to think we looked pretty natural on our blades, now that I was able to turn and all. That was until an old man in short shorts zig-zagging backwards through everyone told me I needed to bend my legs and relax. First of all sir, my legs are bent so I’m sorry you cannot handle my awkward body proportions but I promise you I go most days without falling on my face. And also, don’t tell me to relax! This is like when an old or middle-aged white man interjects a “Smile, why don’t you!” as you’re walking down the street and what you’d really like to do is pick up the nearest shovel and show them what a genuine smile looks like.

My best “what the fuck, man” face to a weaver brushing past me.

I was in a groove on the rink for a while, especially after I passed Tatenda and gave him a thumbs up as he clasped his friends hands tightly while they slowly circled the main rink. He told me I looked great, so, I’m definitely taking his word for it. And they were playing the same songs from my Rollerworld days — Some Shaggy mixed with Kung Foo Fighting and other oldies. Oddly enough this was more exciting than worrisome. What I would’ve liked to have done before we left, however, was to sabotage one of the many “weavers” on the rink — you know, the speed skaters that get boners off of almost making you fall every time they pass. That and I wanted to join the wannabe thugs in the middle of the floor to see if I could still drop it like it was hot.

By the time Anna and everyone wanted to leave I was in the groove, literally and figuratively — I had finally found a way to almost dance when “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk came on as all the regulars looked around like, “Who turned off Destiny’s Child?” I finally made my way off the rink, barreling toward the edge to get off because I never learned how to use the breaks, and just barely stopping myself without face planting.

“Nailed it,” I said to the guy who seemed to be more into the spectator aspect of the sport.

We took off our blades, leaving us with the weird feeling of no longer being able to glide on the carpet, and said our goodbyes. As we walked out an old man on buttoning up his leather jacket and approaching his motorcycle stopped us.

“This ya’lls first time?” He asked, and I was resigned to the fact I could never fit in as a regular here at Skateland without actually becoming a regular. But was I ready?

Clearly, I’m more than ready…

Because Why Wouldn’t You Go Rollerblading?

If you want to know what I was like as a preteen, just imagine a glittery baby blue Limited Too cami, hair straightened with a clothes iron, too much eyeliner, and of course, Rollerworld. I ruled Rollerworld like it was Fangtasia and I was Pam. The Rollerworld of Saugus, Massachusetts is where I learned girl code, how to be Mexican (hey, I’m 25%),  and of course, how to grind while rollerblading. Friday night Rollerworld dances were my transition into the raunchy world of teenage desire, where shaking your booty to Lil’ Kim was mandatory.

Actual photo of Rollerworld — I can’t help but imagine the number of semi-boners that existed on this dance floor at one time.

I only wish I had tapes made of me and my skinny twig legs rollerblading around with an underdeveloped ass and overdeveloped boobs trying to twerk my way into a boy’s line of vision. It didn’t help that the two girls I always went to these dances were mostly Italian and had Beyoncé (from Destiny’s Child days) booties without even having to drop it low. Mannn, I dropped it low though; but it didn’t look natural — I looked more like Gumby with blossoming breasts bending over than an attractive young female purposefully making dance moves.

There I am!

So, obviously, when Anna asked if I wanted to go rollerblading tonight, I said yes. Because obviously I need to relive my raunchy youth more and as much as I loved almost dying after hiking yesterday, I’d prefer to exercise without realizing I’m doing it. (Ellen Page also really romanticized rollerblading for me in a kick ass way). Matti, however, when asked, did not understand the draw to rollerblading. My initial reaction to this was severe outrage which then obviously led to the questioning of our entire relationship and how I could be with someone who doesn’t see the inherit amazingness of floating on rollerblades in a giant indoor arena with a bunch of other adults trying to be kids. But then I realized, without Matti at our rollerblading adventure, I could TRULY relive my Rollerworld glory days. (Hey, babe, if you’re reading this, you cannot get mad at me if I bring home an 18-year-old rollerblader with an active spirit and a youthful disposition. You decided not to come and this is just who I am now).

Anyways, redoers, prepare for a literary feast of descriptions of me rollerblading to hip hop music with teenagers circling around me, chanting, “ROLL, ROLL, ROLL” tomorrow because that’s what us ‘bladers do. Tomorrow’s post will be rollerific (copyright?).

But now for truly important matters:

If you REALLY love me like you say you do, you will go right now to look at this picture of Sir Tengo, my princely pup, and comment with a caption for a chance to win amazingly unique and ridiculous prizes from me! (Seriously, where else can you win a homemade ninja star AND official US Postal Service postmaster junior stickers.) There are two awesome entries so far but we need more! You will also win my undying love and respect which, of course, is invaluable. Mostly though, Tengo likes to hear me read the captions to him out loud so he can imagine being on puppy adventures. You have till Friday, you animals.

The Walmart Microwave Hunt

Welcome to Walmart. Sorry are the giants bin displays of fun pops, batteries, and aloe vera in your way?

I would’ve put up a better fight, but I was feeling bloated and hungry and the appeal of a cheap and easy nuking machine beat out my conscience.  So we went to Walmart for a microwave. I don’t take this sentence lightly, I assure you — I spent an entire semester Sophomore year of college on a journalism research project about the class action suit brought up by women against the corporation; I’m convinced I only got an A- because my teacher was halfway through having her tenure revoked and fully on her way to becoming a crazy conspiracist.

But Walmart’s just so much cheaper. Sometimes, we compromise our supposed morals for low prices (especially when unemployed) and, of course, for the chance to watch an entire family go from clothes shopping to vision appointments to toy shopping to grocery shopping and finally, to a quick dinner at McDonald’s without having to leave the comfort of their local Walmart SuperCenter — It’s like watching the ultimate Supermarket Sweep challenge live.

But Walmart still triggers the spoiled six-year-old brat response in me — My face morphs into a McKayla Maroney “I’m not impressed” look like a true diva. If walking down a frozen aisle where there’s fifteen freezer doors worth of frozen pizza variety and only six worth of frozen veggies doesn’t elicit an automatic face-palm-response then we obviously just wouldn’t get along.

I knew I was losing my mind when Matti held up frozen mozzarella sticks with a remember-how-I-used-to-eat-dairy-and-fried-foods-before-I-met-you face and I said, “Are you fuc– well, actually, I’m kind of in the mood for mozz sticks.” Translation: Sure, I’m kind of in the mood to turn into Ursula from the Little Mermaid later, when the fried dairy starts to Perfect Storm my stomach — but at least I won’t know when it’s coming.

But when we get to the microwave aisle I’m less “not impressed” and more about-to-turn-into-the-Hulk because it’s not even that cheap — it’s basically the same price as Target except I don’t get to venture off next door into the aisle of plates that perfectly matches our apartment’s color palette as Matti pays for makes the hard microwave decisions. (I can sense olive green home decor from an unparalleled distance.)

But we have to get the microwave, because we’re here, in Walmart, and I’ve already started drinking my unsweetened tea without paying for it. As an attempt to make this trip worth it I stop to glance at the bath mats, since we’ve been using a dirty white towel with the word “fun” on it since we moved in. Apparently though, bath mats are the only product where the price, despite the store, never changes. I swear to Mindy that I’ve been in 20 different places looking for a bath mat and they never get cheaper — no, not even at Walmart. What are you good for, Walmart, if not for everyday low prices?

I start to get mad at Walmart like it’s my half sister– what’s up with your flower section? You have carnations, carnations, florescent carnations and dying roses. You could maybe utilize the space being taken up by the giant bins of batteries and fun pops in the middle of the main aisle for a blossoming, slightly neater flower station. Maybe? How about just getting that old man that works in produce to get his hand out of his pants?

I leave Walmart right after handing the cashier an abandoned rotisserie chicken left on top of the People Magazine rack. She seems appreciative and I immediately start worrying about what they are going to do with the chicken. How long could it have been sitting there, getting cold, decomposing, alone in an aisle of candy and soda and last minute grabs. I hoped like me, the chicken would get out of there soon.

Cute Dogs, Contests, and Prizes, Oh My!

Hello redoers (yes, yes, that’s what I’m calling you from now on) in the middle of writing you a brilliantly entertaining review of that time I went out and got drunk off a margarita and a half, I realized I haven’t giving you anything recently (besides my relentlessly graceful wit). I also realized I haven’t bragged to you about how amazingly adorable my prince pup, Tengo is. So here’s our chance!

Now introducing the first annual Prince Tengo Caption contest! Can you feel the excitement? The anticipation? It’s pungent (most likely because Tengo hasn’t taken a bath in a while).

I’m going to provide you with a picture of Tengo in one of his princely positions and the winner will receive — wait for it — the intricately crafted colorful ninja star from the first installment of What’s In My Purse as well as some of my official US Postal Service Junior Postmaster stickers (and of course, a personalized note from yours truly which, let’s face it, will someday be worth a lot more than we think)!

A little bit of background for creativity sake: Tengo has long battled his nemesis, Mirror Tengo (the dog living inside the mirrored sliding doors of our closet), upon realizing, however, that Tengo can go behind the other side of the mirror, Tengo revealed his true self:

Rules:

• The funniest, cleverest caption will win. Make me and Tengo laugh (it’s been a long week).
• Winner(s) will be announced Friday, August 2nd.
• Enter your caption by commenting on this post.
• Feel free to campaign for your favorite caption through comments as well.
• Enter as many captions as you want!
• Entertain me, please, I’m asking very nicely.
• Email me at aly.dixon210@gmail.com with any questions
• Andddddd…. caption!

What Does Mindy Kaling’s Hips, Bob Marley’s Teeth and the Best Women Farters All Have in Common?

The is my first search terms post and I’m really excited to exploit my misplaced sense of self-importance. People have stumbled on to my blog from a lot of silly search terms like “girls+poop”, “all men are boob guys” (really?), “how do i reverse seven years of bad luck from breaking a mirror”, “the best women farters”, “how wide are Mindy Kaling’s hips?” (leave her hips alone, a-hole) and let’s say a lot more terms regarding pooping, farting, and women, which is totally kick-ass.

Why, yes, please tell me again about how sexism no longer exists..

I am especially honored to fit into the category “women farters,” because as we all know, this is an exclusive club for wild, unabashedly raucous women who have no moral values, especially not being lady-like. I mean, the first time I farted I had to look around the room and then at myself in the mirror to make sure my lady bits didn’t fall off from the mere unrefined act of flatulence. Wait, no, that never happened. I’ve been breaking wind since 1989, suckers! But yes, I do consider myself among “the best women farters” — it’s an honor I believe I have rightfully and dignifiedly earned. Just ask my first boyfriend.

To the person who wants to reverse the bad luck they struck after breaking a mirror, I hope you are under the age of thirteen. If not, here’s some advice: sit in your living room staring at the television. Turn on a show like say, Once Upon a Time and imagine everything that happens in this show is real. Now walk over to your television and sit down in front of it — remember, you must believe that the town of Storybrooke and Rumplestiltskin are real (as the show predicates). Try now to reach into your television with your hand. Remember, you must believe. Now try sticking your head up in there. Did that not work? No? Okay. Well then try holding your hand up and turning it around so that your palm is now facing you. Now bring your palm to your forehead. Do it again. One more time. Okay, your luck should now be reversed.

On to you, person who is too concerned with the width of Mindy Kaling’s hips. Do you actually measure your own hips? What is this piece of information worth to you in a dollar amount? And why do you think the internet should have this particular statistic? Please do me a favor and go buy a book and then actually read it instead of wasting all of our time on your celebrity appearance-oriented inquisitions.

But the real reason for this post is this gem: “want a redo on growing up.” Finally, my soul mate finds me. Let’s talk fellow wannabe redo-er, we’re all friends here. What about growing up do you want to do over? All of it? If you’re like me, you would go back in time and not make fun of David O.’s power ranger undies in first grade because you  could tell how embarrassed he was after. You also would’ve started reading books before 8th grade. Aw, man, if I could do it over, I’d write more stuff down (says the girl with 30 childhood journals sitting in her closet) that way my dad couldn’t use my lack of childhood memories as a favorite personal anecdote at family get-togethers.

What else? I would’ve rehearsed more for my audition for You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown in 5th grade and maybe not have used “Hit Me Baby One More Time” as my song choice — Britney always let me down. I would’ve been such a good Snoopy.

I would’ve quit soccer WAY sooner. 

I would’ve spent more time in bouncy houses because they don’t tell you once you reach a certain age it is no longer appropriate to jump around in bouncy houses. Something about “letting the kids have their turn.”

I definitely would’ve shown Mickey some more respect at Disney World instead of running away, crying. That mouse has been through a lot.

I would’ve embraced the mean-spirited nickname Aly Dicky as a potential anecdote for my future famous self. Actually, let’s just pretend I loved the nickname from now on.

I definitely would’ve worn my retainer more, that way I could smile freely as an adult without worrying about which angle best hides my snaggle tooth.

I would’ve spent more time playing tricks on my parents, like switching the sugar with salt, so I’d have more funny childhood stories to write about.

I would play with legos ALL the time.

I would continue my Harriet the Spy venture for way longer since my invisible decoder pen was everything, but this time I’d disinvite my next door neighbor, Ashley because she thought she was sooo cool because we both had the same bedroom set but she had the matching wallpaper AND the book shelf.

I would’ve worn this outfit every day. (C’mon that’s adorable).

I’d make my family perform the plays I wrote as a child and record them so I can use them later as blackmail.

I would’ve applied for a job at Blockbuster instead of wasting all my time there for free.

I’d definitely go back in time to our family vacation in the Bahamas and tell my 11-year-old self that no, you really don’t need to get your entire head braided because no, you do not look good you little white girl, you look like when Monica from Friends got her head braided except wholly more frightening. But at least now I know how much I could never pull off being bald.

I would’ve never thought this was an acceptable Halloween costume. What the hell are those lips?

Our perception of being old ladies was apparently women sitting in bathrobes doing their hair and getting facials. Definitely accurate.

Let’s stop there for now before I end up curled into a ball shaking back and forth, regretting all my past decisions as Tengo licks my face in awful doggy delight.

What would you redo about your childhood or about anything? College major maybe? Going out with that guy with the weird mustache? Forgetting to shave your armpits before that time at the beach with all your friends? Spill it, redo-ers.