A Note to Friends & Arkansas Adventures, Part I

       Before I begin, let me say this: I miss my high school. Not the physical building, the dances, the sports.. but the girls – the teachers – the environment itself. I feel ashamed that I haven’t updated PrettyNerd for such a long time. I’ve definitely noticed a trend though.. when I’m busy with new friends, new classes, and new experiences, it’s almost easy to forget my roots – where I’ve come from — who has shaped me into who I am. This is my attempt to garner those memories back into conscious thought. The intense nostalgia building up the past few days from thinking about my amazing friendships is motivation for this new post. I love every single one of my girlfriends differently, and they all mean a ridiculous amount to me. They really helped make my high school experience what it was, and even though I’m meeting people who, in their own ways, are building my college experience with me, I still want my ‘old’ friends to be a part of my life.

New Friends and Old Friends
Joseph Parry
1841-1903

Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.
New-made friendships, like new wine,
Age will mellow and refine;
Friendships that have stood the test–
Time and change–are surely best;
Brow may wrinkle, hair grow gray,
Friendship never knows decay.
For ‘mid old friends, tried and true,
Once more we our youth renew.
But old friends, alas!  may die,
New friends must their place supply.
Cherish friendship in your breast–
New is good, but old is best;
Make new friends, but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold.

Family Friday

Forget about the fact that the first day of autumn is a couple days away and pretend today, Monday, September 20th, is the Friday of Labor Day weekend - a day where dreams of the possibilities and expectations arise in hope that what this one last summer weekend can offer you really is the topping on the cupcake. I had such dreams (goodness, sounds like I’m 80 and telling the miserable-version story of my life) on that Friday, and they were quickly coming true. You see, I’m in a long distance relationship (and have been for two years). The jam to my jelly lives in Philadelphia because of school, but he was raised in Arkansas. I was trekking my way over to O’Hare Airport to meet him, because his layover from PA to AR was in ORD (Why there’s a ‘D’ in O’Hare’s airport code has always buffled me). We met and giggled like five year olds finding out that our moms will let us play outside while we waited for our flight.

The flight was so fun. First off, I’ve never experienced a shorter flight. My first flight was to Poland, and it was a good 9 hours (count more, though, because we had a 2-3 hour layover in London). My second flight was also to PL and my third was to Costa Rica. The total flight time was about 7 hours (because we had to fly to Atlanta, then transfer to fly the rest of the way). SO – this 1.5 hour flight to Little Rock was so nice. It’s kind of peaceful knowing that, if I ever needed to, I could leave in 10 minutes (4pm) and be there by (5:30). Cody and I couldn’t sleep (as you could imagine – 5 year olds can’t really sleep when on a natural high), so we played individual games of Sudoku and manuevered our bodies to manipulate the direction the plane was headed (Cody swears that when he hugged me to him and brought me towards the window, the plane tipped every time. PS if I wasn’t the skinny minny I am, I would be offended, I’m sure. As luck would have it – the only thing that I can tip is.. no… wind tips me. Damn). We landed shortly and I got to see his beautiful parents – they really are a purty couple.

It’s a 45 minute drive from the airport (WHICH, FRIENDS FROM CHICAGO, HAS ONLY 1 TERMINAL AND.. 12? GATES. I was definitely south of the Mason-Dixon line =D)  to “Wit’s End Manor” so we talked and I got to drink in all the green I don’t see every day (If anyone ever feels the need to drown in steel and bricks, I can definitely provide; my hometowns got it all). After some dinner and dessert, we (Cody and I + Cody’s sister and her boyfriend + Cody’s momma) sat down and played some oldschool UNO (when you don’t have the color or the number, keep drawin’, baby!!)

It really was a great night — Quality time with family, AMAZING food, and three more days left until I had to fly back to Chicago. This really was a great weekend. I’ll write about Saturday, Sunday, and Monday soon! Subscribe to get the updates when they come! To the right of this post is an envelope icon. Click it, type in your e-mail address and you’ll get my posts (but you can always unsubscribe if you so desire – no hard feelings, because I don’t know who’s subscribed in the first place).

Happy Reading!

Floods, Trucks, Ignorance; Oh my!

       I woke up one morning at 5:30 in the morning to get ready for work, went through my normal ‘wake up and smell the sunshine’ routine and looked outside to checkwhat weather I’ll be styling my clothing decision for. Hello, river! I’m sent to the basement to pick up water with rags galore, and learn that I’m actually not helping -anything.- Dad tells me to give up (Thank God; I was getting tired). I step outside the door when the angry rain stops pounding on everything and see a huge UPS truck coming down the.. river? Okay. Cool. The front of the ginormous vehicle is causing strong waves that are moving the parked (now drowned) cars and whooshing (sorry, couldn’t find a better word) the water closer to the homes. A neighbor of mine waits for the UPS truck to approach closer and then waves his fist at the delivery guy, “You’re the reason for the water in my basement, asshole!”

Okay. Wait.
We were Venice before the UPS guy went down the canal.
…I don’t think he’s really the person that should be blamed here, but whatever.

He’s acted as inspiration. I found this little.. parable? And decided to add my own comments, in honor of my neighbor who now detests the United Postal Service.

The man whispered, “God, speak to me.”
And a meadowlark sang. But the man didn’t hear.

So the man yelled, “God, speak to me!”
Thunder rolled across the sky (&& it started raining in PrettyNerd’s neighborhood. Her basement experienced some flooding and because there was a river where a street used to be, someone canoed down the street..  And this all happened because the man didn’t hear the flipping meadowlark). Again, the man didn’t listen to the sign.  (Great. God’s going to erupt a volcano and this guy still won’t hear. He’s gonna be the start of the end of the world at this point)

The man looked around and said, “God, let me see you.”
A star shone brightly. But he noticed it not.

And the man shouted, “God, show me a miracle!”
And a life was born. But the man was unaware (Okay, I kind of see this. If it was his baby, he might have had a change of heart. It’s not like I think of random babies every day. Moreover – look at a tremendous tree — you try making that, brother!)

So, the man cried out in despair (what a cry baby), “Touch me, God, and let me know that you are here!” (Whoa. Maybe the water from the UPS truck was God touching the man’s basement?! Bastard didn’t pay attention, and I had to pay for it, too. Boo.)

Whereupon God reached down and touched the man.
But the man brushed the butterfly away and walked on.

Moral: Don’t miss out on a blessing because it isn’t packaged the way you expect.

Source Unknown

Turns out, the force of the UPS truck moved the garbage (leaves, dirt, etc) from the sewer and the water started going down slowly.
Makes you think, dunnit?
I wonder if that man is my neighbor.

Hmf. That would make God the UPS guy.

Go figure.

How to Con a Con-Artist

A lawyer and a senior citizen are sitting next to each other on a long flight.

The lawyer is thinking that seniors are so dumb that he could get one over on them easy.

So the lawyer asks if the senior would like to play a fun game.

The senior is tired and just wants to take a nap, so he politely declines and tries to catch a few winks.

The lawyer persists, saying that the game is a lot of fun.  I ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, you pay me only $5.  Then you ask me one, and if I don’t know the answer, I will pay you $500, he says.
 
This catches the senior’s attention and, to keep the lawyer quiet, he agrees to play the game.

The lawyer asks the first question.  ‘What’s the distance from the Earth to the Moon?’

The senior doesn’t say a word, but reaches into his pocket, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and hands it to the lawyer.

Now it’s the senior’s turn.  He asks the lawyer, ‘What goes up a hill with three legs, and comes down with four?’

The lawyer uses his laptop and searches all references he can find on the Net.

He sends e-mails to all the smart friends he knows; all to no avail.  After an hour of searching, he finally gives up.

He wakes the senior and hands him $500.  The senior pockets the $500 and goes right back to sleep.
The lawyer is going nuts not knowing the answer.  He wakes the senior up and asks, ‘Well, so what goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?’

The senior reaches into his pocket, hands the lawyer $5, and goes back to sleep.

The Lost Cellphone Carnival Call

      I usually avoid talking about my childhood, but this story is probably the crown and glory story of my awkward pre-teen years. My church hosts a carnival on its property every summer. There are the traditional rides: the ferris wheel, merry-go-round, tilt-a-whirl (my personal favorite), and then there are the random ones that each carnival company boasts as being better, bigger, and more fun than the rides of its competitor (at least, that’s what I assume happens). I was on one of these random ”competition” rides — a “giant” drop that.. wasn’t really that giant. Point is, I was so infatuated with this idea of dropping 10 feet that I didn’t think about securing my cellphone in my pocket (it was my first ever cellphone; one of those pay-as-you-go devices? It was red =]). I was wearing windbreakers, and the phone was in my right, very un-secured, pocket.

     So I’m on this ride and convinced that I’m experiencing the pinnacle of my life, the rush of life engulfing me and holding me in a loving embrace. When it finishes I am borderline depressed. “Let’s go again!” my best friend yells, and starts running back to the entrance of the ride. I pat my pocket and panic.

     The outline of my phone is nonexistant. Thus begin the two days of being text-less, call-less.. contact-less. It was a very sad time for me, but I found the private investigator in me and started my search.

     First step: call the phone. It rings forever and goes straight to voicemail. First feeling? Someone stole my flipping phone. Not cool. I leave a voicemail, then realize no one can check my voicemail because it is password protected. I curse my useless four-digit enemy, become frustrated and eventually stop calling. My hope decreases a little, but I continue my search.

   Second step: visit carny (for those who live a sheltered life, a ‘carny’ is an employee of a carnival; usually the person who runs the rides). “Sir (people tend to listen more when you show some respect), I lost my phone on this ride; can you look around when you get a chance? It’s bright red, a Samsung flip phone.” I don’t remember his reaction. I do remember him turning to let more people on the ride. I don’t know what I expected, exactly, but I do kind of wish he would have like, shut the ride down and look for it (I didn’t want my phone to be the cause of some catastrophic carnival ride tragedy). This did not happen, however. I went home sad. Aw.

    Third move: visit the carnival manager (I didn’t know they had those). On the second day of my dilemma, I told him my pickle. I described my phone for the 3940y384th time. He unclipped his walkie-talkie and told just about the entire staff to look for this cellphone. I swear to jevus that by the end of the carnival, I was the crazy girl who just wouldn’t let her cellphone go.

    Third day. I try calling my phone again. I use my said friend’s cell and dial. A man picks up. And it doesn’t sound like a carny.

Me: Sir, I lost this phone and would like it back. Can you return to [my parish]?
Man (in a semi-thick foreign accent): Your cellphone?
Me: Yes, sir. My phone. I want it back.
Man: I do not know vat you are talking abowt.
Me: You don’t know what I’m talking about? Are you kidding me? Listen, buster, if I don’t have my phone back soon, I will call the police, have you tracked, and get it back. I swear, I will use the police.
Man (sounds a little flustered): I don’t know vat you are talking abowt! I do not half your phone!”

My friend is trying to get my attention at this point; I wave her off.

Me: Sir, I’m not kidding. I want my freaking phone back.
Man: Please, I do not half [have] your phone.

My friend: Anna, I think you made a mistake.
This gets my attention. PrettyNerd doesn’t make mistakes.. often.
Me: What?
Friend: I think you.. What’s the number you dialed?

I look down. “773…”

Oh, crap.

My number starts with 708.

Me (into the phone): Oh, my God. Sir, I am so sorry. I am so so sorry.

I hung up.

I successfully yelled at a poor little polish man just because I dialed the wrong number. He probably bought a Caller ID after that and maybe even paid for some therapy sessions (and/or a security guard), thinking some crazy broad is out to get him.

Conclusions:

I ended up getting my phone back. It was under the ride, just like I thought it would be. The screen was cracked, which meant texting and finding contacts was incredibly impossible. I bought a new phone.

I learned to always double-check what number I’m calling.

I never wear windbreakers to rides anymore. More importantly, I no longer keep my valuables in unsecured pockets.

What a weekend that was.