Back to reality

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. I haven't written a blog in a while. In a long while. During the time of my absence you could have conceived, birthed, and raised a child. I get it, and I apologize.

I was on top of the world back in October when I placed 4th in a writing contest, as I'm confident you'll remember. Since then, I've been dodging paparazzi, adopting children from Africa, shaving my head, and getting chased down by Swedes bearing golf clubs.... you know, typical famous people stuff. But I want my old life back. I'm sick of the fame. Sick of the fortune. I'm a normal person, just like you. I just want to be Carla again.

This is precisely the reason my sister and I have decided to set a totally normal-person goal for ourselves. A fairly lofty remarkably long goal actually. Thirteen.point.one miles long to be exact. That's right. The Sawatski's will be running in their first, and likely their last, half-marathon on March 7, 2010. Why? Because I always said I never could. And who better to prove wrong than yourself?

I consider myself a fairly athletic person. Whether or not my high school box scores reflect that is beside the point. I have professional athletes in my immediate family. And I'm not one to brag, but if I was, I would mention that I have five, count them FIVE, intramural championships under my belt. But like I said, I'm not one to brag. In light of this, up until about a month ago, 13.1 miles was approximately 12.1 miles longer than I had run without stopping in the past decade. And that is a fact.

That being said, I don't think anyone would dare accuse me of being a "runner". If everyone I ever knew did an acrostic of my name and were forced to come up with one word to describe me that began with an R, "runner" is the last thing I would expect to see. Radical? Clearly. Radiant? Obviously. Realistic? Affirmative. But Runner? Not a snowball's chance in hell. I wake up sore if I even have a dream about running. My high school track career spanned the course of a single day. That brisk, April morning was the exact morning that I discovered that I'm not fast, I can't jump, and passing that baton thing is infinitely harder than it looks. But I got to miss a day of school, and that's what counted.

My official word is that this is not a publicity stunt. But I also can't promise that Johanna isn't Tiger Woods' alleged mistress #17. I can't promise that she is, either. That's really for the public to decide.

I make awkward look good - 1st edition.

I love a good awkward situation. Because I try not to take life too seriously. And because they're freaking hilarious. I would venture to say that I thrive in awkward situations, revel in them even.

This may be directly attributable to the extensive amount of time that I spent in what one would define as "The Awkward Years". For most people, this formidable period of time is synonymous with "The Tween Years". These years, according to Old Faithful (Wikipedia) span a period of approximately 4 years, roughly between the ages of 10 and 14. To that I would like to give Wikipedia a big, fat HA. My awkward years covered a record-breaking 12 years, beginning around age 6 and ending (I think) as I approached 18 years old.

Throughout these years, I had three of the greatest haircuts to ever fall on mankind: The Bowl Cut, The Bowlet, and the I-got-bored-in-class-and-cut-my-own-bangs style. Allow me to elaborate.

1. The Bowl Cut. This is your classic cut, sported by none other than Moe Howard and of course, myself. If you're not familiar with the bowl cut, it's pretty self explanatory. Just imagine my mom taking a bowl out of our kitchen cabinet, turning it upside-down on my head, and then slashing off all visible hair. Remove the bowl from my head and what do you have? A masterpiece. Especially for a 6-year-old girl who already wears her older brother's hand-me-downs. Let's suffice it to say, no one had me mistaken for a fairy princess.

2. The Bowlet. Most of you have probably never heard of the Bowlet before. That's because I made it up. This is a style that I wore between styles 1 and 3. Which is why it is number 2 on today's list. Allow me to paint a picture for you. The Bowlet is a combination of two of the most recognized haircuts to date: the bowl cut and the mullet. From head-on, this looks like your standard bowl cut. However, when you rotate your specimen (in this case, me) 90 degrees to either side, you notice a bit of a difference. Where, at one time, my hair was at an even length around the circumference of my abnormally large head; now, there is a gradual down-and-back slope beginning at my ears. This slope continues until the back of my hair reaches just below my shoulders. I feel fairly confident that my sister and I are the only two people to ever display this do. How's that for fashion forward?

3. The I-got-bored-in-class-and-cut-my-own-bangs style. Do you have a picture in your head? Is it awful? I assure you that my reality was much, much worse than what you're seeing in your mind's eye. Let me guess, you're picturing uneven, jagged bangs across my forehead? Yep, worse. What about bangs that hit midway down my forehead? Ha, I wish. Oh no, this little attention-grubbing 9-year-old went for the let's-see-how-short-I-can-get-one-side-of-my-bangs-while-leaving-the-other-side-the-same-length. I remember this day like it was yesterday. I was in Mrs. Cox's 4th grade class. We were talking about the rainforest that day. Since I had absolutely no interest in this whatsoever, I decided to get out my blunt-tip, Fiskars scissors and get to work. I cut off the first inch and felt the power flow through my veins. It was the gateway cut, and I was in for a trip. The next thing I knew my classmates had begun egging me on. On the back row I even heard someone whisper, "she won't cut them any shorter than that". Watch me, Michael. I kept cutting. And cutting. And cutting. Until voila. The final product. I essentially had a buzz cut on 3 inches of forehead space, leaving the remaining part of my forehead with normal, 9-year-old bangs. In case you're wondering, there's absolutely nothing you can do to fix that. And ohbytheway, there's also not much you can do to hide that. For the next year, I parted my hair to the wrong side, swooping my remaining bangs over the damaged side. I was hot. And all 9-year-old boys wanted a piece of me. All of them.

If you notice the title of this blog, it suggests that this will not be the only entry about my awkwardness as a child, adolescent, pre-teen, and teen. I am not certain how many editions there will be, but based on my life experience, I assure you that I have enough material.

4th place.

Y'all (all 21 of you) should know that as of October 21, 2009... I am officially famous. And by that, I mean tied for fourth place in a virtually (pun intended) meaningless writing contest with my next of kin. Out of 80+ entries, I'll chalk that up as a W. Partly because over the years I've gotten quite accustomed to being almost good enough at everything. Which, ironically, is what the contest was about. And this is easily the most excited I've been to win absolutely nothing, save a bit of a boost to my ego. So for that I thank you, Mark Titus. And thanks for correcting my typo. That could have been fatal.

Click here if you're interested. Which you should be. I'm just saying.

Happy birthday, dad. And thanks. For everything.

With this Friday quickly approaching, and my always fast-paced social schedule (ha), I decided to post this blog a little early. You see, this Friday would be my dad's 58th birthday. As most of you already know, my dad passed away very unexpectedly a few weeks after his birthday 2 years ago. The following is a little something I like to call "Happy birthday, dad. And thanks. For everything."

Thank you for......

• making me the most punctual person to ever breathe air.
• not letting me quit anything... ever.
• threatening to, but never actually following through with announcing "Carla Sawatski, #41 on the court, #1 in your heart" at my basketball games.
• teaching me how to "really" shoot a 3-pointer... and swing a golf club... and swing a bat... and do anything, really.
• making me your favorite child (hate to be the one to spill the beans).
• running with me every morning at 5 a.m. And by that, I mean responding to my sarcastic "good night dad, want to wake me up at 6 a.m. for a run?" with "well, there's no need to waste the day, how about 5?".
• giving me no other option but to love sports.
• reminding me not to sweat the small stuff. For example, Jay just happened to get drafted by the Twins the same week that I made my first C on a test. And your response was "did you see the P.A. marquee? It says 'congratulations Jay Sawatski on getting drafted by the Minnesota Twins'. Yeah... and on the other side, it says 'Congratulations Carla Sawatski for making a 78 on her Chemistry test. It's about time.'"
• still having a bag phone (circa 1992) in your possession until 2007, just in case you needed it.
• reminding me, every time I left the house in the rain, that the roads were going to be slick. Every.single.time.
• having a home remedy for everything. And I mean everything.
• teaching me that "if you can't say something nice, at least try to make it funny". And while we're at it... thank you mom, for the soap in the mouth.
• taking me on dates when I was little and letting me pick everything we did, even when I had a bowl cut.
• always sarcastically suggesting that instead of going out, my friends and I should stay home and play a game of Scrabble with you, secretly wishing we would take you up on it.
• making sure that I knew you loved me... for me.
• coming to change my tire in high school at 2 a.m. when I was supposed to be home at midnight.
• tricking me into riding my first upside-down roller coaster when I was 7.
• being good at everything.
• having 6 computer monitors on your desk. Because you needed that many.
• never being able to tell me "no".
• reminding Natalie and me that "you're the same person on the inside no matter what color your hair is". Which was black. After an at-home coloring experiment went terribly wrong.
• coming to Fayetteville for all of the Hog football games when I was in college. Which meant that I could count on you to skip the game, come eat at the restaurant at which I waited tables, watch the game on the ancient 24" TV that stood 50 feet away, and still leave a generous tip.
• trusting me to make my own decisions, but still being there when I screwed it up.
• having a never-ending supply of Hawaiian shirts.
• calling me, like clockwork, every Sunday night "just to hear my voice".
• teaching me the value of a dollar by refusing to turn on the heat until the first snowfall.
• being my alarm clock, but more importantly for laying down on my bed and letting me sleep for 10 more minutes.
• knowing what was wrong with my car, even if you were just listening to it on speakerphone.
• saying that all 5 of us laughing at old home videos on Christmas Eve was the best present you could ask for. And meaning it.
• being my voice of reason when I was bawling my eyes out at Wal-Mart when my car battery died and I was trying to get home for Thanksgiving by saying, "Carla, shut up and buy a new battery. It's not that big of a deal." And it wasn't.
• hugging me a trillion and one times.
• teaching me life. Simply by living yours the way it was meant to be lived.

I only hope that someone could say "Carla, you are your father's daughter". What a compliment. I miss you and I love you plenty. Happy birthday.

This won't take long.

The following is true: girls like to take pictures. Girls like to take group pictures. I'm as guilty as the next person. In my opinion, if there's not a picture, it didn't happen. And I for sure didn't wear that outfit.

Many of you have probably guessed that I have an opinion on this topic. Well, many of you are right. And here it is. Girls that put their hand on their hip to make their arm look skinny while taking a picture make me crazy. And I mean that in the purest form of the word. Literally crazy. Especially when there is more than one girl attempting the pose for the benefit of her biceps/triceps brachii. It's strike one on the "reasons we won't be friends list". And in my game, you only get two strikes. Screw convention.

Let me tell you why. Everyone knows you don't just stand around like that. It's like gay marriage, it's just not natural. Yeah, I just went there. You're doing it to make your arm look skinny. And, spoiler alert, it doesn't help that much. I tried it once and, to me, it screams "mentally challenged". Quite loudly. Personally, I don't care about the diameter of your arms. I think it's safe to say that no one else on this planet does either. So, just stand there and smile. It's a tactic that has worked for quite some time now.

Re: cats and society

This blog may cause some of you to think less of me, but I'm okay with that. I might even lose a few friends... but again, I'm okay with that. And since there are only 17 people who read this thing, I'm really okay with it. I have decided to be who I am and say what I mean. Because those who mind, don't matter. And those who matter, don't mind. Or something like that. But since I'm right, I guess none of that really matters.

A little over a week ago, a good friend of mine, Lauren Cowling (holla), wrote a blog about cats and society. It just so happened that on that very same day, I had considered this topic as well. You see, I've never liked cats. Let me just put that out there.

Let me start from the beginning, because, well, that's typically a good place to start. My family had a cat once... I was 4... we called it kitty... it ran away... and no one cried. Why? Because we didn't trust it as far as we could throw it. And I use the term "it", because I legitimately don't remember its gender. And I didn't capitalize "kitty" because I don't think we ever actually named it. We just called it what it was. I suppose we could have called it "young feline", but that's a little lengthy. Because it was pointless. It did nothing. And after doing nothing, it did more nothing.

But what really inspired me to blog about this, was something I came across. Something I experienced first-hand. Something I saw with my naked eye. Approximately 3 hours before I stumbled upon LC's blog (while I was working incredibly hard, I might add), I caught a glimpse of something that one of my co-workers has chosen to publicly display on her door. For anonymity purposes, I can't say much more. Suffice it to say... it has to do with cats, their superiority, and their party habits... which I was completely unaware of.

That encounter really got me thinking about cats. I've always known that I don't like cats, but I didn't realize how deep these feelings ran until that moment. I don't think that I really need to prove that dogs are better than cats, but what-the-heck it's a Thursday night and The Office hasn't started back yet.... so here we go.

Let me break it to you gently, your cat sucks. Both of them. Or all 25 of them if you're what society would call a crazy cat lady. To put it lightly, they're a waste of space. And I'm not apologizing.

In case you're an idiot, let me clarify: I'm a dog person. My dog loves me more than anything in this world, more than any other person on this planet. In fact, at this very moment, she is standing next to me with her nose on my knee, looking at me with her puppy eyes, begging for me to pet her. Heck, I could come in after committing a heinous crime and my dog would still run up to me, open her mouth into her little doggy smile, and probably ask me what she should tell the police for my alibi. Do cats do that? No. The smug little thing probably wouldn't even know I got home. And then it would probably call the police on me.

Has anyone ever told you "ok I'll do it, but just because you gave me those kitty cat eyes?". I hope not, because if they have, you're a freak. And you're probably really awkward. And you should probably stop looking at people in general.

Have you ever heard of a rescue cat? A drug-sniffing cat? A seeing-eye CAT? Me either. Cats are egotistical. They don't care about you at all. They're out for their own interests. They wouldn't care about the person buried beneath the pile of rubble, the drug smuggler who was about to cross into U.S. territory, or the blind guy who is about to get hit by a car trying to cross the street. They'd probably let it happen. Encourage it even. That's because they're evil. And they want to rule the world.

For further proof, let's take a quick glance at the media: Famous dogs. I tried to search Wikipedia for "famous cats", and this is what I found. "you may create the page "Famous cats", but consider checking the search results below to see whether it is already covered." It wasn't. And in the words of Michael Scott, "Wikipedia is the best thing ever. Anyone in the world can write anything they want about any subject. So you know you are getting the best possible information." If it's not on Wikipedia, I don't trust it. There are no famous cats on Wikipedia. Therefore, I don't trust cats. It's really all about the math.

Honestly, I have never really trusted people who own cats, and I'm especially skeptical of people who love cats. They can't be trusted. Live by it.

In other news: Jon and Kate are still divorced and Michael Jackson is still dead.

Jinx

I'm not going to lie, I debated about whether or not to post about my hidden talent. I thought I might jinx myself, which would be tragic. Rest assured, my friends, that this was not the case. 

Category: Phrase

"_  _  L  _     _  _  _"

It would be nice to have that $30,000 in my pocket for solving this in the bonus round. Donations will be gladly accepted. 

I promise that this is the last time I try to convince you that I'm a genius. But I think I've made myself pretty clear.

My hidden talent

It's no secret that I have no hidden talents. I'm not double jointed, I can't draw with my toes (or fingers for that matter), I can't juggle chainsaws, I can't even roll my tongue... which I blame my parents for. But over the past few months, I have discovered a talent that has been hiding under the surface for the past 24 years, just waiting to come out. And I'm not going to hide it anymore. I'm just not.

Here it is.... ahem.... I'm the shit at Wheel of Fortune. Excuse my French, but I feel like that's the only way to get the point across. My only other option was that I am "the bomb", but that's lame. 

Now, I've never considered words in general to be my forte. You might be saying to yourself, "but Carla, you're a Speech Pathologist. How can words not be your forte?". Well my answer is this: ummmm.... I'm completely aware of this. But I didn't know what to do with a Bachelor's degree in Mathematics. So Speech Pathology was the result of a couple aptitude tests, a deep look into my inner soul, and many conversations with my mom about how it's a recession-proof occupation. Which, I think, qualifies her for having some sort of psychic ability. Thanks, Treev. 

Ok, so here's how I got discovered, and I use that term lightly. When I was in Los Angeles, my sister and I were sitting at the Ocean Lodge Motel (it's as classy as it sounds) watching Wheel of Fortune. A puzzle came up, and this is how it read at the time. 

Category: Event

" _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ N       _ _ _" 

Spoiler alert: I solved it.

And then today, it happened again. 

Category: Showbiz 

"_ _ _ _ S _ _ _ _       _ _ S S"

Spoiler alert: same as above.

And again...

Catgory: Phrase

" _ _ _ _ _     _ _ T     N _     _ _ _ _ _"

Spoiler alert: I think you get the point.

So today, August 12, 2009, marks the day that I have begun to DVR (when did that become a verb?) Wheel of Fortune, unabashedly I might add. I consider myself to be "in training", much as one would train for a marathon. Exactly like that, actually. Have I mentioned that I need some hobbies?

The purpose of this blog is three fold:

1. To brag

2. To see if anyone can solve those puzzles. 

3. To challenge anyone who can to a Wheel of Fortune Duel. 

I'm sorry, am I 85 years old?

Open Here.

I'm in an uproar. Time out: I don't know if you can actually be in an uproar, but if you can, I most certainly am. Actually, uproar has started to not even sound like a word I've said it so many times trying to figure out if you can be in an uproar. Time in.

Disclaimer: I am very happy to have a job. I am very happy to have a job that I enjoy. And I am very happy that I get a paycheck on the 15th and last day of every month. This post actually has very little to do with my job, if anything at all. But you can never be too safe, or have too many disclaimers.

I have a 9-5 job. To me, that means I work between, but not before or after, the hours of 9 and 5, respectively. Today, I got home at 7. When that happens I want two things... food and a couch. Scratch that 3 things. Food, a couch, and a new car. Had to throw that in because it's always on the "things I want" list. I'm hoping my mom reads this and is feeling generous. Here's to that, Treev. Anyway, I digress. I need food and a couch, in that order and quickly. So tonight when I got home 2 hours after I intended, I made my way to the freezer and pulled out one of my "I got home late and don't feel like cooking" purchases. Green Giant Garden Vegetable MEDLEY (I don't know why they got so excited about MEDLEY). "Simply steam in the bag!" it boasts. Easy enough, so I pulled out that bag, threw it in the microwave and starvingly (new word) waited 4 minutes for my meal to simply steam in the bag. By the way, 4 minutes is borderline too long to wait after working a 10 hour day, especially for a bag full of vegetables.

But anyway, I pulled it out and found the "open here" arrow, and as I've done so many times before, that's what I started to do. Then I kept trying to open it. And then I tried to open it some more. Then I saw another "open here" arrow right below the first one. And another one below that. And so on and so forth. This 5 inch by 5 inch bag containing 8oz of steamed vegetables had a total of eight "open here" arrows along with four more arrows labeled "pull". I frantically tried all twelve (I was a math major) areas which covered roughly every freaking square inch of this bag trying to open the darn thing not knowing if I'd ever get it open. I pulled and I tore, I dug my nails into the plastic, I even resorted to biting, Mike Tyson style. It wasn't pretty. And it wasn't classy either.

This bag was mocking me. I think it was trying to say "this is what you get for leaving me in the freezer until all the frozen pizzas were gone". And then it probably let out a maniacal laugh.

I decided that I was not going to lose my dignity by cutting this bag open with scissors. That would be taking the easy road, which we all know leads to nothing but destruction. So I jumped back on the straight and narrow and decided to fight to the end. To make a ridiculously long story even longer.... I lost. sigh. I.......... lost. shrugs shoulders while shaking head. I gave it my all, but it simply wasn't enough. Not even through Christ who strengthens me.

So, Green Giant Garden Vegetable MEDLEY. You may have won the battle. But believe you me, I will win this war.

Writer's block

Buying some time until I get over my writer's block. I need to encounter some stupid people... and quick.

1. I make lists all the time. And I put things on my list like "eat lunch" or "wake up" just so I can cross it off.

2. From the bottom of my heart I wish I could sing, and I honestly don't think it's fair that I can't. 

3. I will love the Razorbacks until the day I die, even if they cause me to do so.

4. I hate the words "hotcakes" and "cookbook". I'll slap you silly if you say them around me.

5. I took awkward to a new level in Jr. High. For example, my mom used to make my sandwiches on Hoagie bread. I was embarrassed that I didn't have normal white, square bread like everyone else, so when I ate my sandwich I held it under the table and pinched off bites.

6. My dad called me Snarla when I was in a bad mood.

7. My favorite part of the day is brushing my hair after it's been up in a towel wrap after taking a shower.

8. I was invited to 17 weddings in 2008. That's got to be a record of some sort.

9. One time when I was out in Fayetteville, someone stole my shoes. Literally stole them off my feet. I went home barefoot and angry. I may or may not have called the police. 

10. It's been May 2005 in my parent's house for the past 4 years because that month is a picture of my brother pitching in the Hogs sports calendar.

11. My closet is color coded and arranged from tank tops to long sleeves within each color. Everything faces the closet door. It's the only way to do it.

12. Everytime I do laundry, I lose a sock. Every single time. I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out why this happens. I take both socks off, I put both socks in the hamper, I put everything in the hamper in the washer, I put everything in the washer in the dryer, and still... I come out with an odd number of socks. It's a mystery that may never be solved. 

13. I have a recurring dream that my teeth fall out. 

14. I was in the commercial for the University of Arkansas that always aired during football and basketball games. It was a shot of me walking across the stage during graduation. No autographs, please.

15. I was born on February 8, at exactly 8:00am, and I weighed 8lbs 8oz. You can't make that up.

16. My dog's name is Ozzie... as in Smith, not Osborne. I picked out the name before I got her and refused to name her anything else, even though she's not a boy.

17. On April 1, 1995 my family's car was stolen while we were at my brother's baseball tournament in Memphis. The following week during prayer-request time at school, I asked my class to pray that the people who stole our car opened up my backpack (teal, Jansport), got out my Bible, read it, and became Christians. I'm going to ask God about that when I get to Heaven.

18. If I was a boy my name was going to be Stanley Wallace Sawatski. I don't know what my parents had against me.

19. If you've met my sister, you've met me. And vice versa.

20. I love math. I was a math major until I couldn't understand my teacher's accents anymore. I still do Calculus problems when I get bored in class just to see if I can still do it. I haven't stumped myself yet. 

21. I got in trouble in SonPower because Elizabeth Baker and I put too much powder in the lemonade. I still remember that lady's name, and I think about that everytime I see her. It was worth it, the lemonade was good.

22. In first grade, Sarah Phillips and I used to go to the bathroom and bang our heads on the sink so that we could get the gelly ice-packs. Mhmm.

23. Having a dog has taught me that I'm nowhere near ready to be a mother. You can't just give a kid a rawhide. 

24. I used to think I was going to marry Devon Sawa from Little Giants because his last name was the first 4 letters of my last name. 

25. One time I lied when my brother asked me if I had played his video game. He thought I had because it wasn't put back the way that he usually did it. I insisted that I didn't play it. Two hours of interrogation and one "family discussion" later, he finally dropped the subject. I never told anyone I lied. Jay, I played your video game. And I think I won.

Sorry if you just read that for the second time hoping there would be something different than the one on Facebook. There wasn't.

Jack of all trades.

Grandfather: Professional athlete
Grandmother: Professional singer
Father: Professional athlete
Brother: Professional athlete

With my genealogy, I would expect that I would be either an outstanding athlete or an immaculate singer. I am neither. In my days at Pulaski Academy, I played my fair share of sports. I did not excel at these sports. My singing was worse.

Basketball: I'd call basketball my "good sport". I wasn't bad, wasn't bad at all. In fact, ahem... I was named Most Valuable Player for my Junior High, District Championship winning basketball team. Please, hold your applause. That, unfortunately, was the peak of my athletic prowess. The very next year, when we moved to the Sr. High team, Jana Derlikowski, Alison Tussey, Jenny Hardin and I formed a revolutionary group called The Four Corners. What we did was.... well, we sat on the end of the bench. We refused to uncross our leg, stomp our foot twice, and recross our leg the other way when our teammate made a freethrow. We hit Jana, made fun of each other, made fun of other people, and received countless "stop that" glares from our beloved upperclassmen. What we didn't do, was sweat... thus making our motto "No Sweat... because we don't".

Softball: I'm a Sawatski. I did this because it was expected of me. I mean Jay's good at baseball, Carla must be good at softball, right? To me, it was just something to do after school. And let's be honest, I really wanted one of those jackets. I learned so much during my softball years. I learned what "moxy" means. Ok, no, I really didn't... but I had to act like I did because my coach always asked me "Carla, is that moxy?". I'd always reply with "probably not". I learned what it felt like to have a fan club. Mine consisted of approximately 6 people including my parents, but they brought signs, which made it legit. I learned what it felt like to lose... a lot. I also learned that you shouldn't skip a game to get your hair done for prom. Woops.

Soccer: I came home from school one day and enthusiastically told my dad "I'm going to play soccer this year!". He looked at me blankly, and then began laughing hysterically. I wasn't kidding. And that was the year that I forced my dad to sit through the excruciatingly boring game of soccer. I'm not sure he ever forgave me.

Pep club: This is something I never wanted to admit, especially in a public forum, but yes, I was in pep club. It was as awkward as it sounds. I proudly wore the gold mock-turtleneck, the pleated skirt, and of course, the Asics... the mark of any official cheerleader in the 90's. Plus, I got to perform the world-renowned Pulaski Academy cheer that every cheerleader (or semi-cheerleader) that has ever gone to that school has performed. "Bruins in the front, let me hear ya grunt...". I think you know the rest.

Track: actual conversation between me and my basketball coach --
coach: "hey, do you want to run at the state track meet?"
me: "no, I do not"
coach: "you get to miss a day of school"
me: "what time does the bus leave?"
That day was the beginning, and the end, of my track career.

In my early years, I also experimented with piano, swimming, golf, gymnastics, tennis, and karate.

I think, I THINK, I have justified my qualifications to be a Jack of all trades, one that excels at nothing. And then I got to thinking, "what AM I good at?". And then it occurred to me... math. I'm good at math. Really, God? Math? You had those genes to work with, and you gave me MATH? Good one.

This entry is far too personal and insightful. Won't happen again.

Reasons I'm not ready to be a mother (cont.)

8. I currently drive the same car that I did when I was 16 years old. I won't go into details, but suffice it to say, it barely has room for one able-bodied passenger... much less a kicking, screaming, terrorizing child (which I feel that I will have).
9. Moms are supposed to be able to answer all the "how", "when", "who", and most importantly "why" questions that a child will undoubtedly have. I don't have an iPhone with the power of Google to retrieve those answers quickly and report them to my child so that he (I'm having boys) never has to tell his friends that his mom didn't know the answer.
10. I rely on Google to answer life's most important questions.

Tennessee's Most Wanted: Taylor

In my final days in Memphis, I've been the victim of a heinous crime. Now, I don't mean to frighten anyone, but this criminal is still at large. He is believed to be armed and dangerous. I'm conducting a nation-wide search to find and convict said criminal.

The crime occurred on Saturday, May 9, 2009 at approximately 2:15 a.m. Here are the details leading up to the crime.

1:00 p.m.: I arrive at FedEx Forum
2:00 p.m.: The graduation ceremony begins
2:08 p.m.: I graduate
4:45 p.m.: The last person graduates.
5:00 p.m: My family celebrates my graduation, Mother's day, and my brother's birthday with dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe. We're very efficient.
10:30 p.m.: My friends and I arrive at The Flying Saucer.
2:00 a.m.: Hunger strikes.
2:01 a.m.: Jim refuses to make us Chili con Queso, and instead, brings Lauren Lee and I our tabs and politely asks us to get the heck out.

The next hour is a blur. We had no idea what was coming next. Here is the sequence of events as I recall.

Lauren Lee and I were leaving the Flying Saucer when we happened upon a boy, who may or may not have been dead, sitting by himself at a table by the door. I woke him up, checked his vital signs, and determined that he was alive. When he asked where we were going, we informed him that we would be dining at the Blues City Cafe (the scene of the crime), just one block away. We invited him to join, saying "Taylor, come with us, you'll make a good story". Not accustomed to being wrong, we were right.... but we didn't know just how right we were. Grateful that I had saved his life, he followed us to the Cafe. And then things got awkward.

The three amigos sat down for a nice, quiet dinner on the corner of Beale and 2nd street. This was the last night that any of us would dine together. I decided on the chicken strips, Lauren Lee requested a double order of chicken strips along with tamales with chili (this is a whole nother story), and Taylor..... sigh....... Taylor ordered "The Best Meal on Beale". You heard me. Ribs, catfish, and chicken tenders included. All for the bargain price of $18.95.


Once we'd given Millie our order, we began chatting and learning about our 3rd amigo, Taylor. We discovered that he is a Sig Ep at The University of Tennessee by way of Clarksville, TN. We learned that he attended a wedding that evening (I'm assuming open bar). We also discovered that he felt the need to steal 5 cups from that wedding. We observed that Taylor speaks with a lisp. And finally, we found out that Taylor likes to try to bite people. And he doesn't give up easily. This information is not all-inclusive, but it's all we have.

Our food arrived, and it was everything I expected it to be and more. Taylor felt the same way. He polished off his chicken fingers, catfish, and most of his ribs before informing us that he needed to use the restroom. And that's when it happened. Faster than you can say "Best Meal on Beale", he vanished. And by vanished, I mean we watched him walk out the back door. After the shock wore off, I decided to chase him down. After all, what are the three amigos with just two amigos? But it was to no avail, Taylor was gone. Did I mention he forgot to pay? And by "forgot", I mean knowingly ordered the most expensive meal on the menu, ate it until he was satisfied, claimed he needed to relieve himself, and walked himself and his credit card right out that back door. The classic dine-and-ditch.

If anyone knows the whereabouts of this criminal, please request $20 to cover the cost of his meal, and then give it to Lauren Lee Favreau. Because I didn't actually pay for it.

And that's how I saved a criminal's life. No good deed goes unpunished.

Click on the picture. Now.

Attention Adam Lambert

Dear Mr. Lambert,

When you're on a live, nationally televised talent competition (as you are), and you are asked to choose between two groups to which you may or may not belong based on your performance (as you were), you're never supposed to actually choose a group (as you did).

Have you ever seen American Idol, Adam? And by that, I mean are you a living, breathing human being? It's the oldest trick in Seacrest's bag. Splitting the contestants into 2 groups and asking the remaining contestant the infamous question, "so, whoeveryouare, which group do you think you belong in?". This is the first time in my years of watching American Idol that I've actually seen someone answer that question. And I'm glad it was you, Adam. Because I think you suck anyway.

This, my dear, is what you're supposed to say. "Oh my gosh, Ryan, I can't answer that. Both groups are so talented. Why are you putting me in this position? I can't choose. I just can't. I love them all". And then you just stop talking. All while smiling and laughing and looking at both groups for an equal amount of time. And when the host attempts to cut you off and get to the point (as he did), you definitely don't cut him off in order to choose your place. It's called tact. And if you don't know what that is, please refer to my previous post entitled "tact" (My creativity is astounding).

I hope this is a lesson learned. And I hope that it goes well with you.

I mute the show when you sing,
Carla

p.s. I'm looking to buy some new eyeliner, any suggestions, Adam?

Reasons I'm not ready to be a mother

I was thinking today about just how many of my friends have babies. It seems like everyone and their mother has a child (no pun intended). So I was trying to picture myself with a baby, and this is what I saw..... cricket.......cricket.......cricket....... nothing. Couldn't do it. Not without keeping my sanity.

So here's my on-going list of reasons I'm not ready to be a mother. And hopefully, someday, years down the road, I will be able to change this list to "why I'm going to be the best mother that ever lived". Until then.... in no particular order*....


1. I don't wake up to loud noises.
2. If I did wake up to loud noises, someone would need to stand in between me and that loud noise for the good of everyone involved.
3. I look better with long hair.
4. I drink excessive amounts of Diet Coke. It's not something I can do (or am willing to do) in moderation. I've tried.
5. I spend the majority of my time coming up with new greeting cards so that my sister and I can make millions one day. (This is not a joke).
6. I lock up my dog for important occasions including (but not limited to) American Idol, Lost, and Wii sporting events. The verdict's still out, but I don't think you can do that with a child.
7. I watch entirely too much reality TV for my child to grow up to be a normal, functional (or semi-functional) human being.

*This list is not all-inclusive. More to come, I'm sure.

The English Language

If I was a gamblin' woman, I'd bet that no one reads this because of the sorry title I just used. Not my fault. Those people need to quit judging books by the cover, quit knocking it till they try it, and any other cliche you deem appropriate at this time. And cliches are always appropriate.

If you're still with me.... some time ago, I had an "AHA moment" as Oprah would call it. Time out: I hate Oprah. But that's neither here nor there. Time in. There is this particular phrase in the English language that I just can't seem to wrap my mind around. And everyone says it. Yes, even you. What is it? You may be asking yourself. Drumroll please..... ba duh ba duh ba duh....

"A whole nother".

Let me let that sink in....

A whole nother story. A whole nother reason. A whole nother (insert word of choice here).

In my professional opinion, which actually isn't legit for 2 more weeks, but whatever... there are two possibilities for this phenomenon. Either we mean "another whole" and we have broken apart "another" into "a (blank) nother" and stuck "whole" in between. Or, the more likely scenario, we actually mean "a whole other", but then where did that silly /n/ come from?

I know this is deep.

I do it. You do it. We all do it.

I'm okay with it. I hope you are too.

Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble...

"Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble when you're an Arkansas Razorback fan."

I find it quite easy, actually (I'm talking post-1994 here). I think the Razorbacks have done more to contribute to my life-lessons on humility than any other factor in my life. And I thank them for that. Somehow, no matter the sport, they always know the exact moment that I start becoming too prideful. And I can always count on those Hogs to bring me crashing back down. They remind me to humble myself. And I always do. Over and over and over and over again.

Quite possibly the most heartbreaking moment of my life thus far: Clint Stoerner's fumble.

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, God made me a Razorback fan. It's a curse that I'll always be under. A burden for me alone to carry. And all I can say is that it's one heckuva roller coaster ride, but God love those Hogs.

Next of kin.

The reasons you should go to http://whatigetforthinking.blogspot.com are three-fold:

1. She's pretty stinkin' funny.

2. She is my next of kin.

3. Standing at 5'2" and rapidly approaching 100 lbs, this Kindergartner has more joy on her face than most people have in a lifetime (see below). And she wants to share that with you. So go, and tell her the "pretty one" sent you.

Tact.

Tact: "Acute sensitivity to what is proper and appropriate in dealing with others, including the ability to speak or act without offending."

Tact is a great quality to have. Unfortunately, the amount of tact that I possess fluctuates on a daily, or sometimes an hourly basis. But I have good reason. It's because people are stupid. And they should know it.

Now over the years, it's come to my attention that there is a discrepancy between what I want to say and what I actually say when it come to dealing with people in general. And that, folks, is what we call progress.

Case-in-point......

Scenario: I need a tan. I'm not afraid to admit it. So I've been going to this place called Tan-N-Go. Because that's what I want to do. I want to tan. And I want to go. Well all of that changed a few days ago when I walked into the tanning salon and encountered Miss Hawaiian Tropic (names have been changed to protect the innocent. Or in this case, the not so innocent.) By the way, she looks nothing at all like the picture you have in your head based on the name.

What I said:

Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Hi how are you today?
Me: I'm just fine, how about yourself?
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: I'm good, what's the last name?
Me: Sawatski... S-A-W-A-T-S-K-I
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Ok it looks like you've been going 10 minutes in a 20 minute bed.
Me: Yes I'll go at that same level today.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Ok, what kind of lotion have you been using?
Me: I don't.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Did you know that your skin actually reflects the light?
Me: No, no I didn't.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Well it does, and this lotion will help your tan last longer and your skin won't dry out!
Me: How much?
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: This one is on sale for $65 this week only.
Me: BAHAHA. I'll live.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: (sarcastic laugh) Your choice.
Me: Yep.

What I wanted to say:

Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Hi how are you today?
Me: I'm just fine, how about yourself?
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: I'm good, what's the last name?
Me: Sawatski... And I know you're too incompetent to even come close to getting the first 3 letters right to put it in the computer and pull up my account so.. S-A-W-A-T-S-K-I. Just like it sounds.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Ok it looks like you've been going 10 minutes in a 20 minute bed.
Me: Why don't you scream it a little louder, I don't think the bum up the street heard you.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Ok, what kind of lotion have you been using?
Me: I don't. And don't waste your breath trying to sell anything to me. I won't buy it.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Did you know that your skin actually reflects the light?
Me: Really? Does that line work for you? Why not, "if you don't use it you're going to get skin cancer and die". Never heard that one before.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: Well it does, and this lotion will help your tan last longer and your skin won't dry out!
Me: How much commission do you get when you sell a product?
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: This one is on sale for $65, this week only.
Me: There's also a little thing I like to call St. Ive's 24 hour moisture. And I get it for $3.47 a pop.
Miss Hawaiian Tropic: (sarcastic laugh) Your choice.
Me: Bitch. (note: this is what I wanted to say. We're family-friendly here so I'll give a shout-out to the Holy Spirit for the restraint)


I'm a work in progress.

hmph

Ok I'm putting my pride on the line here, but I think it's time to admit... I haven't the slightest idea about how to work this thing.

I see a box to my right that says "followers", which, I'm not gonna lie, makes me feel like Kelly Kapowski for a minute. Until I realize that I only have one follower. And she is my sister. And I asked her to do it.

While we're at it, I'm not sure what I think about the use of the term "followers". Although, I suppose it's good we're getting past all that Facebook sugar-coating of being a person's "friend". Calling it like it is, I guess.

So come, follow me, and help me vindicate the awkward freckled-face Jr. High girl with the tapered jeans and the hair that was not-so-subtly calling out for a straightener that just wanted a Zack Morris to call her own. My mom will pay you.

Do I really have to come up with a title for every single one of these?

So I started a blog. Stating the obvious here. Let it be known that this is something that I said I would never do (FYI, other things I said I would never do: wear Bermuda shorts, poof my hair, dance in public, watch The Real World... all of which I eventually gave in to. Moral of the story? Don't trust me). So you might be asking yourself this very question, "Why now, Carla?". Why the sudden interest in posting your innermost thoughts for the world to see? Disclaimer: this blog most certainly will not contain my innermost thoughts. Back to the question at hand... Is it because you're getting married? It's not. Is it because you're pregnant? Absolutely no. Is it because your life is so interesting that it should be featured in US Weekly? Sometimes, but that's not the reason. Here is what ultimately made me decide to start a blog....

Cue dramatic background music.

Ahem.... This evening I was thoroughly enjoying my Sunday tradition of catching up on my DVR from the previous week(s). As I was sitting here waiting to see if Whitney was going to take Jay back, my dog jumps up from her spot, runs to the door in apparent frenzy, and proceeds to bark incessantly until I take her outside. Seconds later, I'm just standing outside waiting on Ozzie to do her thing, when I casually glance back towards my apartment building. And there I see it in the window of apartment 303, building 54. A Christmas tree. I didn't stutter... a CHRISTMAS tree. Not only that, the lights were on, an angel was on top, and I'm assuming that if I knocked on that door right now, I would see perfectly wrapped presents sitting under said tree. Then I start to get angry. Not only is it 3 months+ post-Christmas, it's freaking Spring. I'm trying to find any way possible to cut these people a little bit of slack, because let's face it, I'm a forgiving person. But I just can't do it. Can't chalk this one up to laziness, because every night, these "neighbors" of mine consciously get off their rears, walk to the tree, and plug in the lights. Not only that, but they then proceed to walk to the window and turn the rod on their mini-blinds for the entire apartment community to share in their Christmas joy. It's almost as if they are proud of it. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about some Christmas. I love family, presents, food, and of course JC. But seriously neighbors, check your calendar, it's March.

And THAT'S when it hit me. Can I get a date check? Today is March 29... a mere 48 hours away from April 1. And suddenly I laugh to myself, I know what it is... it's an April Fool's joke... on ME! Good one neighbors, I fell for it. Now take down your tree. It made me start a blog.

With that said, I've conformed to the ways of this world, I've given in to peer pressure, I've fallen into a bear trap (anyone who graduated from 6th grade at FBC feels me here). I'm not promising to update this every day, every week, or heck let's be serious... even every year. I'm not promising for this to be interesting, informative, or even entertaining. But I bet you'll read it because you're at work, and you have nothing better to do. Am I right or am I right? But here's the deal, when people of this calibre come along... the story must be told.

And that, I can promise to do.