Writing Assignments 101

My friend Delightful takes college classes tirelessly, and mentioned yesterday that she didn’t want to do her latest assignment. I offered to do it for her, but since it was a somewhat personalized assignment, she did it herself. Luckily, having a friend in creative writing gives me great ideas for blog posts!

The assignment: Imagine yourself as a car. What color are you? What’s in the glovebox? What’s in the trunk? What kind of music is playing on the radio?

My response:

I’d love to say that myself as a car would be a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500. Good old-fashioned all- American muscle encased in a body sexy enough to give any guy with half a brain a hard-on. The kind of car a guy can just get in and go 100 miles an hour in.

Sadly, I am not the owner of long, flowing blonde hair,  or legs that go for miles, or capable of causing most guys to rubberneck when I walk down the street. I have curves in all the right places, and a few in the wrong places. It takes a certain kind of man to want to pick me out of all the other cars that are out there. So I would have to say I’m probably a convertible Volkswagon Rabbit. Pretty cute, reminiscent of a better day, sturdy, and better with my top down.

Maybe I don’t have the generic beauty of a Mustang, but I maintain that under my hood lives the engine of such a beast. Fast enough to challenge anything that comes up, (like a new, not-so-sexy Camaro) and strong enough to handle the rough bumps in life.

My adorable Rabbit body would be a bright shimmery fuschia color, which, upon closer inspection, would change to a deep royal blue. A paint job that draws women in immediately, and one that, if they take the time to notice, guys actually think to themselves, “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

In my glovebox? A whole lot of things with words on them. Books, maps, diaries, what have you. A general catch-all for everything that finds it’s way into my innards. There’s probably quite a few receipts from McDonald’s and Victoria’s Secret too.

What’s in the trunk? Heh heh. Junk. Isn’t that what the guys want in the trunk? Of course there would be an umbrella I never use, but for the most part, my trunk would be filled with speakers sufficient to melt the faces off of anybody who turned them up.

As for the radio, it would be a flow of music constantly changing so as to avoid any interruptions like commercials. Rock, country, classic rock, hip-hop, R&B, easy listening on occasion, and little bit of rap thrown in. Rest assured there would be a steady stream of Michael Jackson “Hee-hoo!” ‘s and 80’s music blaring.

Welcome To My Box

It was my birthday on Saturday.

I am now at a terrible age.

It’s not necessarily because I’m over 29 and have yet to give Chris Meloni a booby-squishing hug, (although that certainly doesn’t help), or the fact that because of my candy-and-French-fry eating habits over the last 30-some years has made my body decide to rebel against me, but the main reason I am upset it because I am now stuck at an even number for the next 12 months.

I realize that any OCD readers out there may be appalled at the thought of someone actually WANTING to be an odd age instead of an even age, but hey, I’ve spent my years trying desperately to have attention on me. Anyhoo, I received a mailer that was meant to be filled out this week, and on it, there was an area that asked you to check a box for your age range. Instead of the usual 30-35 (which is disturbing enough that I fit into), I had to check the box that said 32-37. I know I shouldn’t say anything, because I’ll be there soon enough, but 37?! How did this happen? When did I end up being categorized with old farts?

Instead of dwelling on it, I decided to steal a line from Samantha in Sex and the City- “Welcome to my box.”

It’s a great place to visit, My Box is. It is filled with people who are (it is hoped) mature and won’t be caught dead in a Justin Bieber shirt. We are usually seasoned enough to know that not all marriages work out, and that rushing into things is not always a good idea. Sure, there are a few of us who are happily married, and even a few more who are romantic (?) enough to keep getting married again. (and again). Still, there are a couple of us that grow completely ill at the thought of ever again binding themselves to another human being for all of eternity.

In My Box, we are not ashamed to admit that we once listened to New Kids on the Block while playing Miami Vice in our basements as children. Some of us were absolutely enthralled with David Bowie as the Goblin King in The Labrynth, and will forever be looking for that perfect man who can pull off a spiky mullet while wearing leather junk-promoting leggings and a ruffly shirt. Here in My Box, we occasionally bebop to Backstreet Boys, and the GooGoo Dolls, or if in a fighting mood, Brandy and Monica’s The Boy is Mine. But to prove we don’t have completely hideous musical taste, we will admit that as children, we just wanted to grow up and grab our junk while singing “Heehoo!” in a funky falsetto exactly like our idol, Michael Jackson.

We were the ones who wore the massively baggy jeans that looked like jean skirts, unashamedly. The ones in My Box know about the clunky heels that were my first pair of grown-up shoes, and platform boots that were in every mall store that sold shoes- now only sold in Hot Topic.

We are the ones who are now populating the earth with new tiny beings who will grow up with the iphones and ipods fused to their hands, the ones who are giving way to the children who only have friends on Facebook, who are clearly evolving into birds that Tweet, and as we once said to our parents “what’s that?” when we found an old 8-track, our children will be confused and astounded when they find our old and antiquated VHS tapes buried in the back of some closet somewhere.

It’s not such a bad place, My Box, and I certainly don’t want to go on to the next Box.

I Can Sleep When I’m Dead

It would make sense that after a gruelling week at work, a person would want to go home and unwind, perhaps with a bottle of Pinot Grigio or some other uppity foofoo swill. However, it seems I have a very different way of unwinding.

I am pleased to report that after putting in 52 hours in four days as a Pizza Slut last week, I was still able to rush home and make myself excessively presentable on Friday night in order to take my Rockstar out to see L.A. Guns perform.

It matters not that L.A. Guns first got together as a band when I was yet entertaining myself with My Little Pony and Sesame Street. It is true that my when thinking of the music of my youth, my reminiscing first goes to New Kids on the Block and Michael Jackson. That being said, this is one of those times when I wish that I were ten years older, so that I may properly recall fondly the days of 80’s hair bands in the style of my Rockstar and my much-older brother.

Because of their passion for all things 80’s rock, my brother and my Rockstar both have instilled in me the love of hair and heavy metal bands, shirtless lead singers, and heroin-hooked bass players who don’t necessarily recognize the groupies they banged back stage. While I don’t necessarily remember popping a top at a high school party to the high-pitched voice of Vince Neil singing Ten Seconds to Love, my ears perk up when tunes of such ilk make their way through the radio to my aural devices. Oh, to have such energy as Dee Snider when he announces the House of Hair on Sunday mornings. You certainly don’t see that sort of reaction when Ryan Seacrest mentions Justin Bieber’s Girlfriend song.

Anyhoo, I found out that L.A. Guns was coming to town, and I knew my Rockstar very much liked them, so I stated that we must go, no matter how tiring my work schedule has been. So I donned my new teal and purple heels, and off we went to the Red Carpet.

The Red Carpet is a historical nightclub in downtown St. Cloud that is best known to me as a magical money-sucking machine. As in, I will enter the front door with $100 and within four hours, have nothing to show for it except an excessive buzz and empty pockets. The decor is hideous and in need of an update; the stage is miniscule and hardly large enough to support a stack of Marshall amps; and the bartender girls are deliciously adorable and adept at taking dollars from your hands. It’s great.

Being set in a college town, the Red Carpet is usually filled with the over-educated and underpaid younglings of St. Cloud. Happily on Friday night, I was pleased to find that for the first time since I became of legal age, I was the youngest in a crowd of mullet-sporting, stuck-in-the-80’s group of people. With my Peach Schnapps and water in one hand, and my own middle-aged Rocker in the other, I prowled the many floors of the Red Carpet intent on scoping out any hot chics that were present and awaiting the arrival of the Guns.

By the time the show started, my Rockstar was sufficiently drunk enough that he could no longer hide the child-like enthusiasm he felt at being able to see a band from his youth. He rambled on about the demise of the band he’d put together in high school, and about how frustrated he was when they hadn’t wanted to rock out to L.A. Guns. I assured him that when we finally start our band, we will jam to whatever floats his boat. Then the show started.

One of the disappointing things about a band that’s been touring off and on for some 20 odd years is that generally not all the original members are usually present. This is not necessarily a huge issue, as long as the lead singer is still around. I can say with fair certainty that though I never witnessed L.A. Guns in their heyday, I believe that Phil Lewis (the lead singer) was the heart and soul of the band. Strutting around in his bedazzled un-buttoned shirt, his performance lacked nothing despite the fact that his younger and obviously much-prettier days were past. In my inebriated state, I even noticed that he most certainly was making eyes at me during The Ballad of Jayne. Too, I was amazed to see that he had the power to make every fan there scream in ecstasy just by yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey! HEY!” and pumping his arm in the air.

As I walked precariously back to my car while berating myself for stupidly wearing gorgeous heels to a rock concert, I thought to myself, “I’ m so glad I didn’t decide to stay home and sleep.”

P.S. I also decided I need to become a Rockstar.