The Highway Waltz

There’s no way you can live in as gargantuan of a country, ahem, state, as Texas without facing the occasional necessity of driving long hours to get to where you need to go. In 6 hours I could get from my house in Phoenix to sitting on a San Diego beach, scarfing down fish tacos. That same amount of time in Texas will get you lost amongst fields of hay, longhorns and Wrangler-clad cowboys, and guess what, you’re still not at your final destination.

But ahh, the open road! How hard can driving be when you can pick up sweet tea at any gas station/family-run barbeque restaurant/local bar along the way, and country crooners grace the five stations your radio will pick up?

Regardless, driving is a pain, because there is always that person who competes with you for your spot on the road. Here I am, cruising along listening to Josh Turner (that voice), and somebody comes all up on my bumper, guilting me for only going eight over when there is a perfectly nice lane right next to me. Outraged at this inconvenience, they whip by, only to settle into the lane ahead of me and slow back down.

….

Did I miss something? I thought you had some terribly important place to be or something. Some other person to bother perhaps. I feel awkward passing you again, but, you started it.

And so we dance. 

Ch-ch-ch-ch...What?

Netflix has proved its worth many a time. Hours of potential productivity give way in the wake of never-ending archives of distraction. My most recent affinity within Netflix is the random documentaries that educate viewers on the more bizarre facets of culture. One such documentary alerted me to the existence of an infomercial product so kitschy and ridiculous I felt embarrassed for Americana at large.

Obama Chia Pets.

How tacky have we become? One of the most influential people in the world, reduced to a terracotta caricature sprouting a sassy green fro. Besides my gut reaction that said fro may have a slightly racist connotation, I couldn’t help but snicker at the generous options given to the eager American consumer; depending on the demeanor you prefer, you can choose between Obama’s “Determined Pose” and his “Happy Face”, all for the low price of just 17.99.

Other cultures have immortalized their leaders, whether real or fictional, in high aesthetics like murals, poetry, and song (Anyone heard of the Odyssey?). And we have…chia pets. Archaeologists a thousand years from now will surely think our culture was highly advanced.

Now what self-respecting American wouldn’t want that little gem gracing their windowsill? The Obama Chia Pet: pour some water in him and see if he Changes. 

The Scourge of the Sidewalk

At one point or another, we will all come in contact with them. They’re everywhere. On the roads, in the parks, in neighborhoods, maybe on your own street. Their presence is gut wrenching and inescapable.

Runners.

Yes, they inspire a begrudging admiration at times, and may even motivate me to try something other than Zumba once in a while. But, real talk; running is not fun. And some runners take things too far.  In the name of all that is decent, stop flaunting your ridiculously toned body! I see them smirking, knowing the rest of us can tell from their sweaty shirt that they have just run a half marathon, the spring in their step taunting us that they could easily run another twenty miles.

I am perfectly happy not being able to run ten miles without expiring, and I don’t need runners to remind me of how long it’s been since I’ve struggled laboriously to complete a 5K. The only sense of gleeful satisfaction I gain from seeing them bound along the street are those ridiculous Nike running shorts they think are cool.

I know I am not the only one who hates running. 87% of people in our poll (out of 2) agreed that running is painful and unfun. Hateful. Horrific even. 

So no matter how guilty runners try to make me feel, I will stand by the fact that I burn just as many calories dancing in my kitchen to Britney Spears as they do running mile after boring mile.

I'd Like You To Meet My Mate.

We’ve all met those couples that personify what I like to call the “I caught a butterfly” look. The awe, the admiration, the glow as they gaze upon their love as if they can’t believe their luck. It makes me want to make a toast to love and prance around in a skirt.

But nothing snaps me out of my romantic reverie faster than having someone introduce the love of their life as their “mate.” I’m sorry, but chimpanzees have mates. You, on the other hand, are human, and I can’t think of anything less appealing than having my significant other compare our relationship to that of hairy primates.

That’s when you know the romance is gone.

Equally cold and utilitarian is ‘spouse’, a term which should only be used in legal proceedings and other equally boring situations. If you’ve been put in the awkward position of having to deal with this type of introduction, you know what I mean when I say that this conjures up about as much warmth as a cat in a bathtub.  And if you have been the instigator, know that I will inevitably assume by your choice of words that your relationship is at best business-like and at worst, emotionally geriatric.

So instead of making us all feel like we just bit into a lemon, consider the alternative. A professor of mine introduces his wife by saying that they have been dating for forty-three years, and as he says it, glances down bashfully. (Insert sighs from all the female students here) Take a cue from him and maybe you won’t remind us all of Discovery Channel documentaries quite so much. 

Baby Pictures: No Longer Cute.

For all of you having babies out there, congratulations and more power to you. Although I don’t yet feel old enough to be entrusted with a nine-to-five job or a mortgage, much less a clone of myself, plenty of my friends are taking the plunge and seem perfectly happy doing so. I love babies and will unashamedly make a fool of myself cooing ridiculously nonsensical nothings into their precious little faces.

What astonishes me, though, are the weird pictures some people take of their babies. Sure, most people take pictures of their newborns, whether they’re for announcements, Facebook or just the front of their fridge. But all you have to do is Google “baby photography” to see that competition is stiff to earn the “Most Artsy Baby Picture” award.  It’s like hipsters run every photography studio. “How about a picture of the two of us holding our baby?” “No, no, way too normal. Let’s put her sleeping on a tree stump and take a picture.”

Other questionable ideas include suspending your infant in a hammock or sling from a tree branch as they take a little doze. Just my first impression, but that looks a little precarious to me. Or, you could put your delicate infant naked in a basket, a la baby Moses on the River Nile. If you wanted to get really creative, why not put your child in an enormous jar of peppermints? No really, that’s a thing. Look it up.

Call it creative expression or what have you, but seriously. Enough with the bizarre baby photo shoots. They’ll grow up to take moody pictures of themselves in their bathroom mirror with their phones soon enough.