andreadisaster.com

You probably know that mannequins are scary. It turns out that if you can get past your fear of their staring, motionless imitation of human life, they can be occasionally hilarious as well as creepy.

I was walking past the great thrift store Hey Betty a while ago and spotted these bevies in the window.

First off, you should know that when this reformed theater nerd sees a gaggle of brides, I’m reminded of the ditty Shuffle Off To Buffalo from my high school production of 42nd Street. If I ever someday do get engaged, I won’t be able to go to one of those bridal expos without humming this song under my breath, under constant threat of breaking out into the chorus. It’s a curse I’ll carry for the rest of my life.

Now that the required dorktastic mention of my past is over, let’s get some close ups.

I think she’s looking at me.

Simply horrified.

Clearly, Her Highness Long Neck is too good to look at us.

The real question: why are they all male mannequins in drag? I’ve never known a store to have that many male mannequins lying around.

Luck works out in weird ways. The same day I’m freaking out over not having enough money to put gas in my car, I win tickets through work to the Flaming Lips concert. If you’re keeping track at home, this is the third thing I’ve won in three months, after throwing out the first pitch and tickets to the Urban Garden Party. Maybe I need to start playing the lottery on a regular basis…

Anyways, so the tickets through work gave us access to the VIP tent, which was this raised blue and white tent with folding chairs and two leather couches. Some people got free beer (we didn’t). A woman in the tent about my mom’s age asked my friend Jessica some questions before the show. She asked us why so many people were wearing bright green. We told her probably because of marijuana. She asked how long the band has been together and I told her over 20 years.

“Twenty years?!” she exclaimed. “I had never heard of them before.”
I shrugged. “They’re a cult band.”
“But how do the people know about them?” she asked, gesturing to the crowd. “They’re so young, there’s no way they’ve known about them the whole time.”
I shrugged again. “The internet.”

I started the show in the tent, watching from my seat. But you can’t expect me to sit still when confetti and ballons are flying through the air. I HAVE to dance in it.

Wayne, Steve, and the guys put on a great, great show. While they were setting up, the trains kept going by and they microphoned the tracks so if it went by during the show, they could play it loud. And they did! Very cool.

Of course, my favorite part was the big sing-a-long for Do You Realize?? It was quite pretty to see and hear.

So I went to my first roller derby match (game? brawl? whatever) on Saturday. The Steel City Derby Demons vs. the Philadelphia Roller Girls. And even though the Pittsburgh teams didn’t win, it was awesome.

Don’t ask me the technical rules or anything like that. I know who the jammer is and what her role is and what everyone is supposed to be doing in relation to that, but the hands-on-the-hips signals confuse me. I did pick up the line ‘call off the jam’ but I’m not sure what that mean (pumping up the jam, on the other hand., is a different story). My favorite part about roller derby might be the awesome, awesome derby names. I liked Snot Rocket Science and McShovin the best.

It was so awesome that for a couple hours, I actually entertained the idea of participating. This is would be when I live in the elusive world known as Someday. This ‘Someday’ is the same place where I’ll finish the scarf I started crocheting and get around to the two paintings that are half finished in my closet. Someday is currently known as Never.

I’m okay with Never when it comes to roller derby, though. Not even just because I don’t know how to skate and I’m uncoordinated (though those are big factors, obviously).  Honestly, I’m way too big of a whimp to handle all the bruisin’ and hurtin’ that comes along with it. It’s okay. There need to be people like me, to wimp out and watch and cheer.

You have to admit though, Andrea Disaster would be a GREAT derby name.

In addition to my grey hair, another thing I’ve learned to make peace with is the fact that not everyone who meets me will like me.

That may sound a little weird or not that big of a deal to you. Maybe one day the fact hit you and you just went back to whatever you were doing, shrugging your shoulders. Or mabe you didn’t even have a realization, maybe you knew this from a young age. For me, it was huge. I wasn’t very popular growing up and was picked on quite frequently, so making other people happy- either through jokes or my personality- was my way feeling accepted and keeping the bullies off my back. I wanted everyone to like me, and making people laugh was the quickest way to feel like everyone did. Silence still kills me to this day.

I also think being a girl who comes from a long line of people-pleasers definitely has something do with it. When you see those around you trying to make everyone else happy, you tend to follow suit as a way to universal appeal. It only makes sense. Sure, I’ll give you my favorite pen. What, you want a dollar to buy a pop? Okay, fine, here’s my notes from science class. Low self-esteem is more dangerous than any secret chemicals in Tupperwear and lingers longer than the damage from car exhaust fumes. That’s what we should really be worrying about when it comes to kids- they things they will do in the name of cool.

Anyways, I remember the first time I was aware that someone actually didn’t like me and not in that vague, I-think-they-hate-me-but-I’m-not-sure-way. I knew about this one.

There was a freshman in marching band my sophomore year of high school who was an incredibly sweet kid, but really shy. So of course, the boundless, camp counselor side of me tried to include him as much as possible. To get to know him better and get him to open up, I asked a lot of questions- about life, his family, and all that jazz. He wasn’t the first or last person to get interrogated by me. My sister calls me “Nosy Rosie”, which in some instances may be true, but most of the time I’m genuinely curious. I like to learn about different lives than mine- why do you think I read blogs? People who know me are used to it, but this kid was probably overwhelmed by me.

My high school football team was legendary for its losing streak (40 games at one point), and finally won its first game in over four years that year at an away game. It was the peak of my school spirit and there was much celebration and happiness. Later, getting on the bus, I saw this freshman in the seat, looking bummed. “Why aren’t you happy?” I blurted, “WE JUST WON.” He mumbled something about not being into the game and I left him alone. I eventually fell asleep, but woke up in time to hear him say to someone that he wasn’t happy because that day was the anniversary of his grandmother’s death and that I had bugged him about not being into the game. Then the kicker: “Andrea. I really, really hate her, and I always will. I never want to talk to her again.”

I. Was. So. Crushed. I know you shouldn’t take what a stupid 14-year-old boy says seriously, but I was a stupid 15-year-old girl, so of course I did. Not only was band awkward after that, but he really would not talk to me. I tried to talk to him many times, and he always ignored me (And I told you, silence kills me). In the rare times he’d answer me, he would say it through an intermediary. He wouldn’t even look me in the eye. I know, how lame.

Of course, this fucking killed me. I fretted about it off and on for the rest of the school year. There was this ONE person and he did not like me and I needed to change this! Word could spread and the rioting and pitchforks would start and that’s just a loud mess (So it felt, to a slight exaggeration). But nothing I said or did could change it. He refused to speak to me. Then the next school year came around, I worried about it less. I rarely saw this kid and I had much more pressing problems, like repeatedly failing my driver’s test. The year after that, my senior year, I didn’t even care at all. Who was this kid again? It was weird to me at the time how much less I cared as time went by, especially since it bothered me so badly at first, but I had accepted it, as I have with every other ill feeling that has come my way.

Pete says it best in the Muppets Take Manhattan: Peoples is peoples. Can’t change them or their minds. The best thing to do is just keep going. And sing and dance with a frog if you get the chance.

“I know I’m alone if I’m with or without you
But just being around you offers me another form of relief
When the loneliness leads to bad dreams
And the bad dreams lead me to calling you
And I call you and say, ‘C’mere!’”

Yeah, I’ve been listening to a lot of Rilo Kiley this week.

I headed out last Monday on my birthday to the Red White & Blue Thrift Store assuming it would be closed, since most things were in observance of Independence Day (a fact I’ve grown used to after all these years). I mean, come on, do thrift stores get more American than the Red White & Blue ones? It would have to be closed.

Not only was it open, but it was crazy busy, which is my favorite way for a store to be. The more people = the less attention I draw.

$60 for the complete set of Star Trek on VHS? Unless that plastic bin is secretly made of gold, I’ll pass.

I don’t understand these jars at all. Do you actually use what’s inside or are they just for decoration? Because either way, I think it’s a little gross.

You know what would go great with panda suspenders?

A panda cookie jar, of course! Which was conveniently sitting a few feet away.

I really, really, really hope the guy who originally owned the jacket has this design tattooed on his arm.

I’ll let this image of a child’s toy chainsaw sink in, because it definitely took a few seconds for me.

Parents: this toy is a Bad Idea. I don’t care if you live in the middle of logging country and you have aspirations of raising the next Paul Bunyan. Three words: Texas Chainsaw Massacare. This is what Leatherface got for Christmas one year.

I swear I didn’t position them like this, but I love it. It’s almost as if they just froze that way right before I walked by…

You could be on a desert island with all of these board games and I’d be content, so long as I had people to play with and a bottle of gin (but that goes without saying). The other sides of the Trivial Pursuit box had Bob Newhart, Oprah, and the cast of Murphy Brown looking younger than I ever remember. My childhood of Nick at Nite and TV Land may have well-prepared for me for this game. So glad to think that all those Green Acres and Happy Days marathons might not be in vain when it comes to a board game I did not actually purchase.

These little things are so unfortunate, so ugly, so sad looking, I almost feel bad for them.

Jobs curiously missing from this book:

• Bartending.
• Commission-based retail.
• Slaving away for The Man.

Oh wait, these are supposed to be GREAT job. Whomp whomp.

I should have taken it as a sign of things to come my freshman year of college when a waiter at TGI Fridays told us that he makes more money waiting tables than he did writing for a local newspaper. But no, I was a young optimist, and here I am, fulfilling my childhood dream of working for a newspaper by writing obits. According to my mother, the fact that I’m not waiting tables is exceeding her expectations (this is not a joke), so at least I have that positive in my pocket.

Though, to defend myself, if I couldn’t have been an English major, I would have studied history or sociology, both of which have an even more limited job pool than English. So good job, self, on being kinda sorta practical.

Keep following those dreams, kids.

“How do you do it and make it seem effortless? When it’s all the stupid things, so overwhelming to me. Like paying bills or showing up for work early. Or laughing at your jokes.”

Good job with predicting my mid-twenties, Jenny and Blake.

Seen here and inspired/related.

Saturday was my mother’s mother’s side’s annual family reunion. It’s the Italian part of me and they’ve been going to a local family amusement park since I was a small child. There are matching t-shirts, card games, and tons and tons of food, of course. It’s as dorky as it goes and I completely love it.

My friend Sam asked me how many people would be there and I told him 100. The final count was over 120. Probably about 30-40 are family friends, and he asked why anyone would want to go to another family’s reunion. I understand that, but my family (the whole, extended lot) is one that values friends and would rather they come along than have nothing to do on a sunny Saturday. I told him we like to take in strays.

This ride absolutely TERRIFIED me as a kid. I finally got the guts go on it when I was eight with my cousin Erin, who decorated a plastic visor with Puff paint for me as a birthday present. I took it off before the ride started, but the visor flew out of our seat. I got it back because the woman in the next spinning car caught it in the air, which is pretty impressive. I rode it again five years later and thought it was so lame, since I was 13 and too cool by that point.

Starting at age 10, I brought my best friend Julie with me. She was my practically-family-friend, who called my parents by their first names and got along with my cousins. She even contributed a recipe to the family cookbook. The best part about bringing along a friend was not just having a riding partner, but the sweet freedom to roam the park without an adult. We’d team up with my sister and younger cousins to ride our favorites over and over, buy ice cream and other crap to the annoyance of my mother, go swimming at the water park, and flirt with the older guys operating the rides. Minus the dorktastic matching shirt, it was a pre-teen’s perfect day.

By high school, it wasn’t as fun. The rides we rode over and over were boring by this point, buying treats was too expensive now that I had to use my own money, and I was too self-conscious to swim in public. The worst part was the guys- now that I was the same age with them, it wasn’t as cute to try to ride the Wild Mouse twice in a row. To add to it, Julie and I were also growing apart as friends.

I’m at the age now where the only other person I’d really bring with me would be a significant other, if I had one. It’s okay though, because I can come and go as I please, so I go, say hi, eat, socialize, take a couple pictures, walk around the park, and then leave to do my own thing. In this case, it was another 4th of July party. Still, love my family, and it’s always good to see ‘em, all 120 of them.

Told you it was family friendly.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that things won’t go as planned not matter how solid and swimmingly everything is going up until that certain point. It’s not that I haven’t figured this out on my own yet, but when I’m looking forward to something, I can have tail-wagging puppy-dog enthusiasm. And unlike the puppies, I don’t forget my disappointment when a tennis ball is tossed my way. The downside of having any expectations.

Some nights might end with me lying on my bed eating a tomato sandwich and watching Arrested Development while the night breathes like an open oven door, even though it’s a holiday and my birthday at midnight and I’m in the me-me-me moment and there are at least a dozen places with air conditioning and alcohol that I’d rather be but for reasons beyond my control, I cannot.

That while impulsively trimming my too-long bangs at the bathroom sink, I realize the contents that went down my kitchen sink have been regurgitated into my bathtub and it smells and I smell and can’t rectify my smelling until the dirty water goes down and I scrub the tub. Tears and sweat are both salty and easily mix together with self-pity, especially late at night.

And at 12:45 a.m., on a night so hot that I’m actively sweating just sitting still, I trudge into a Rite-Aid to get rubber gloves, sponges, and an extension cord, but I’m directed to the wrong aisle by a woman with painted-on eyebrows, so I detour through the candy aisle because, um, it’s a short cut, and the box of Ring Pops with their shiny Crayola wrappers taunt me to pick one, so I do. Cherry. Classic.

Then at the register, Painted-On Eyebrows tells me that the machine for debit cards is down and I tell her it’s fine, I’m paying with cash, finishing that sentence in my mind with I don’t have enough money on my card anyways, feeding into the mope machine, when she asks me how my 4th is going and am I having a nice night. I want to say, “No, it’s been fucking horrible, The Worst Night Ever, my bathtub is full of gross dishwater, my third floor apartment is a hothouse, and the asshole I’m supposed to be with right now won’t call me back and it makes my heart hurt. Did I mention it’s technically my birthday now? I feel like no one cares, even though I know people do.” Then I look her in the eye and I see that she’s tired. She’s being polite. She doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. Working on holidays can be the adult equivalent of staying inside to do homework while all the other kids go to recess, hearing their screams and laughter while math problems stare back from the page, uncaring. The money isn’t even worth the assholic nature of happy revelers, drunk on their own good times more so than alcohol. The central AC is useless when this close to the automatic sliding doors that lets in hell’s exhaust every few minutes. In terms of the Worst Night Ever, I decide she has it.

Her eyebrows are painted on. Maybe she has alopecia. I make myself smile and say, “Yeah, it’s been really nice.”

“Oh good,” she says, bagging my stuff. “It’s just been so miserable outside.”

Back in my apartment, I open up the to-do list my mom wrote as a birthday letter for me. I love for it’s dorky thoughtfulness. And I decide this will be my year.

Wearing dark denim on the hottest day of the year will make you melt.