Round-Ups

The Completely True Story of Christmas.

I want to start this off by saying I have done a negative amount of shopping for anyone other than myself this holiday season, but fully intend to win Christmas with the amazingness of all the presents I haven’t bought yet.

If you don’t know the story of Christmas, you can read about it here. Oh, and welcome to the twenty-first century, by the way, how was living under that rock for the past… forever?

Reflecting on all the things we do to get ready for the holidays, I couldn’t help but realize how most of it is kinda… weird.  It got me thinking about how it all started.  Thus, I present to you: How Christmas Probably Happened. But Actually Probably Not Really. 

Many moons ago, this kid was born. And he was born in like, kinda not a normal way, because he just appeared in this lady, Mary’s belly.  She was married to this really chill dude named Joe, and I guess they had an extra bedroom and no idea what to use it for, so naturally, a baby will solve that problem!

But Baby Jeezy wasn’t an ordinary baby. Because that would be silly.  Seeing as he just kinda picked Mary to be his mom, he can’t possibly be a normal kid, he has to AT LEAST amount to being a moonlighting superhero.

This kid, Jeezy, turned out to be puh-ritty special.  So they decided that his birthday was going to be a holiday, and celebrated worldwide. (Sidenote: My parents obviously didn’t anticipate my greatness or else there would be a holiday on June 2.  Still working on it.)

Joe and Mary decided the best way to commemorate the birth of their phantom son, Jeezy, was to bring plants inside and decorate them. Joe got his favorite axe and hand saw, marched outside and picked the best looking tree on the property, and cut that sucka down.

He brought it inside, stood it up next to the fireplace; proud of his work.  Mary got all concerned that it looked out of place, so she did what anyone else would do with a tree inside their house; she decorated the hell out of it. Even put a star on top to remind herself everyday how good of a job she did.

Sitting on their living room couch amidst a roaring fire, Mary, obviously having a wine, Joe, probably chilling out with a nice Budweiser. They agreed to transcribe the Constitution of Christmas AKA Santa’s Laws.

1. Every year people have to bring a tree inside and decorate it.

It’s a little known fact that if you cut a tree down and take it out of it’s element you end up with a sad evergreen on your hands.  No one likes sad trees, so by making it look like it was sprayed with the contents of a craft store, even the saddest trees get time to shine.

Big trees are for squares.

2.  All gifts must be stored under the tree.

Protect and serve the presents. Protect and serve the people.  It’s the tree’s motto. It’s the tree’s job.

3.  There will be an old man responsible for delivering all the presents.  

He will travel by sleigh.  With not eight, but nine reindeer. One will have a red nose.  ONLY ONE.

We didn't make the cut.

We didn’t make the cut.

4.  His name will be Santa.

He will live in a far away land, working with really, really, short/small people to make toys all year round. He will wear only red.  He will be solely responsible for keeping the color relevant.

5.  He will have a list.

This is the master of all lists.  This list keeps track of the good people and the bad people.  If you’re good, you get toys.  If you’re bad, you get…. coal!  No one likes coal, except miners and barbecues.  So if you’re a miner who barbecues, you may as well start acting like a horrible person on December 26. You’ll be grillin’ steaks for DAYS with all the fire fuel you’ll receive.

6.  Santa will not break and enter. 

Santa doesn’t break the laws.  You can’t have Father Christmas picking front door locks, or breaking living room windows.  That’s risky stuff. Bad Christmas PR.  By process of elimination, the chimney is the only other way in, so, sorry bro.  Hope your suit is fire-proof.

Christmas is also the one day of the year where it would not be weird to wake up in the middle of the night and find an old man dressed in a red bathrobe/sweatsuit come out of your chimney and start arranging presents under a tree in your living room.

7.  His reindeer eat carrots. He eats cookies. 

Automatic coal delivery to people who forget the milk.  Same with people who give store bought cookies.  Santa’s bionic nose knows a processed chocolate chip from a home made delight. And he doesn’t reward procrastination.

8. There will be sweaters.  They will be ugly.

What better way to say, “Happy Birthday!” than with a knit sweater picturing an overweight man in a red suit riding on a sleigh with flying deer? The short and long answer is: There is not a better way to say Happy Birthday than with a knit sweater picturing an overweight man in a red suit riding on a sleigh with flying deer. Period.

There will also be pajamas.

There will also be pajamas.

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Bells and all.

They sat back, happy with their creation, and passed down the tradition at each family gathering, and it has become Christmas as we know it.  (I sincerely hope you did not read this and expect anything rational or remotely well thought out.)

With that said, Happy Holidays, my dudes 🙂

xoxo, Pete

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(Slightly) Above Average Intelligence

Every so often life comes along and instead of slapping you in the face, it rewards you with a big ol’ hug and a goblet of wine.

In my life, I mostly get slapped in the face, a bad night in heels, less than eight hours of sleep, or not enough milk in the carton to adequately submerge my cinny toast crunchies.

I feel like, in general, I live a pretty average life.  I’m not extremely athletic, a really good singer, or incredibly smart. I don’t know how to appropriately portion my desserts, find pants that fit, or figure out for the life of me why there is a silent P in pterodactyl.

But today is a milestone.  Today life gave me a warm embrace, and a big fat glass of Pinot Noir – because I finally found out that I was good at something!

In my original post, I mentioned that I wasn’t particularly book smart.  While I maintain that notion, I do want to not completely throw myself under the bus here, because I do think I have some sort of redeeming value in this world. I have a boat load of random knowledge all up in my cranium; I’ve just never had an outlet to show off my cerebral strengths.

UNTIL NOW.

I present to you the game that will make you think you are smarter than you actually are: QuizUp.

At is core, it is a trivia game.  But it adds a competitive edge; because by logging in through Facebook you can challenge your friends. That’s right, you can single-handedly select the people you know are dumber than you and challenge them in a game of wits and fast fingers.

Now, you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Hey self, this girl just told the internet world that she wasn’t smart, so I’m gonna challenge her and make life slap her in the face again.”

For that, I applaud you.  Because that means you actually read what I wrote above.  But I encourage you to think twice about challenging me, because I will whoop some internet bootay in the following categories:

Pop: Move over, Madonna, there’s a new Queen of Pop. AND IT’S ME.

Boy Bands:  I wore a boys flannel t-shirt and a visor three days a week in elementary school because of this photo.  Also, know all the ad-libs to every BSB and N*SYNC song.  Not a big deal, but kind of a big deal.

Shopping: Amazon Prime member, Forever 21 addict, Marshall’s and TJMaxx credit card holder. I can’t even contend with myself here.

Logos: When I give directions, I use landmarks as guides rather than street signs.  So naturally, I know a logo before I know the word.

Missing Letters: Fill in the blanks. N_T   IN    MY   H_U_E.

Name The TV Show: I have a sitcom dictionary all up in my noggin.

It’s true, I’ve finally felt what the other half feels.  To be able to be called on in class and know the answer.  To be able to answer a question correctly, rather than making it up. To be able to utilize all the time spent shopping online for retail recognition.

Game on, people.

PS: If you know that you’re like really good at these five categories, please move on and crush someone else’s dreams.  My dreams are fragile, little, sleepy, glass bubbles filled with ponies, chocolate, and brunch buffets. If you mess with those, you may as well commit a real life felony, because you’re robbing me of my life goals.

Happy Quizzing. And thanks to my main man, Ez for telling me “I can”, when all I ever said was, “I don’t want to.”

A Wishlist for my Afterlife.

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A few weeks ago I was at the gas station when a homeless woman came up to me and asked me for money so she could buy a coffee.  I never carry cash, so I went in with her and used my debit card to get her a medium light and sweet.

The next day a man asked me for some money so he could buy a T pass. Again, I never carry cash, but I swiped him through the turnstile so he could catch the next train.

I don’t carry cash for a variety of reasons.  One, I am too disorganized in my purse to ever hold on to any amount of money.  Second, using credit cards gives the illusion that I’m not spending real money, so if I don’t see the cash physically disappear, it must still be in my bank account (this is completely rational thinking, by the way).

But not carrying cash in those two instances allowed me to do something good with my money.  Now I know buying a coffee and a train ride aren’t the basis for getting into heaven, but I have to believe it’s a good start.

This whole path towards greatness got me thinking about what heaven must be like.  And if i’m going to be in it, there definitely needs to be a few things to make my eternal stay in the afterlife a comfortable one.  I made this list assuming bacon was already present, because frankly, excluding it would be preposterous.

Here is a list of the things that (absolutely) have to be in heaven:

1. Naps

You have to be outside of your mind if you don’t think that I will spend every night dreaming about nap time, and every day planning out when it’s happening.

2. Wine

Grapes on grapes on grapes.  Wine for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wine is water, and water is wine. I think the bible says that.

3. Buffets

I can’t be in an eternal place of peace and serenity and not have unlimited access to selections from Taco Bell, Pizza Hut and KFC.  KFC biscuits are a deity.

4. Teleports

Aint nobody got time to wait in line in heaven. I can’t be dealing with traffic up in the sky when I want to go to Cloud Bar for a 7pm dinner reservation.

5. Jax Teller

I don’t understand why I would have to explain this one.

6. Baby Animals

Puppies will always be puppies, and baby pandas will be my pillows, and there will be a baby jungle full of baby lions, tigers, bears, OH MY! Basically heaven will be Neverland for animals.

7. Trampolines

No one has a bad day after playing on a trampoline. I will also miraculously be gifted the talent of being able to do gymnastics, so trampolines will have infinitely more applications in my afterlife.

8. Good Hair Days

There is no way I don’t wake up in heaven with prefect tendrils or tresses or curls, it’s just not possible. Hair always looks good in heaven. I think it’s cause there’s no humidity or something. Don’t quote me on that.

In the vein of all things glorious, there are definitely a list of things that are, under no circumstances, allowed in heaven (with or without me).

1. The DMV

The DMV belongs in hell. Those people probably didn’t pay their parking tickets and have more of a use for it anyways. Heaven only lets in good drivers.

2. Airport Security

I’m going to fly with nine hundred water bottles and regular sized shampoos.

3. Push Button/Hand Sensor Faucets

Heaven trusts people to turn the faucet off when you’re done washing your hands.  The people in hell deserve to have sensors tell them when they’ve hit their water quota.

4. Food Allergies

I’ve lived too long with a dairy allergy. I reserve the right to gorge my face with cheese and ice cream, or cheese-flavored-ice cream in heaven.  Food allergies are going to hell. BE GONE.

xoxo Heavenly Pete

Remember the time…and then I broke my face.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane…

I’ll be the first person to admit that I am not fond of someone telling me what to do.

But being a twenty-four year old with extensive nanny experience, I realize that the rules and regulations established for us as children were meant to keep us safe.  But that never stopped me from giving the stop sign the middle finger as I rolled through it, or being disruptive to the point where I was actually kicked out of girl scouts.

Growing up with three younger brothers, I never really had a chance to become a girly-girl.  I was always playing in the mud, getting shot at with paintball guns, and learning the names of all the baseball players on the New York Yankees.  My brothers taught me to be tough, stubborn, and rebellious above anything else.

I’m not going to say I’m a criminal, but I have taken a few creative liberties when it comes to following the law. Here’s a few that I’ve broken:

The Laws of the Road: I’ve gotten more than my fair share of tickets.

The Unwritten Law of Digestion: I don’t wait 30 minutes to swim.

The Drinking Age Law: I had wine at my first communion, broke that law in a church.  Does that count as two?

But these are all trivial compared to the time that I broke The First Law of Motion.  Sir Isaac Newton states that an object will stay in motion until acted upon by an outside force – basically if you’re moving, you’ll keep moving until something stops you, like a wall, or in my case, a big ass tree.

Let me set the scene for a minute. My mom is a crazy runner, like six miles every other day.  My brother had just gotten this spiffy new Huffy bike with grippy handlebars and a comfy seat.  Like, way better than mine.  She asked me to accompany her on her run and I said yes.  Naturally, I took his bike instead of mine (so I guess I’ve stolen too?) and embarked on what was supposed to be a six mile adventure with my mom.

Enter the law of motion.  I ride out of the driveway and turn to go down the hill.  I knew in my head that I could roll down the hill faster than my mom’s two, tiny, Irish feet could carry her, so I told her that I’d meet her by the pond at the end of the road.  I wanted to feel the wind in my hair and the breeze on my face without interruption.

I was riding at a leisurely pace when all the sudden the force that interrupted my inertia joyride came out of nowhere… and then I broke my face.

Yup, stay in school kids.  Pay attention to science, or your teachers, or whoever tells you something and says it’s important.  If you don’t, you’ll ultimately end up breaking laws, and breaking laws causes you to crash your bike into a tree and end up looking like this:

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Result: 6 broken bones in the face, two in the arm, and a popped blood vessel in my left eye.

Side note: Having a black eye, a broken face, and arm sling swag in my third grade school photo did give me some serious street cred.

But it also could have been because I told people I got into a fight over a Twix and they needed to “see what happened to the other guy.”

Xo Pete

You Should Know This For The Apocalypse.

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My mom was really into that show Revolution when it first aired.

For those who don’t know, it’s a post-apocalyptic television show that focuses on a town living life fifteen years after a global blackout.  All the sci-fi mumbo jumbo and dramatic elements are present. Alliances are formed.  Enemies are made.  Friendships are tested.  But above all, survival is essential.

The show premiered at a very convenient time in 2012.  I was living in Connecticut, and we had just survived a nine-day electricity blackout thanks to that biatch, Hurricane Sandy.

Having endured more than a week without power, I pretty much adopted a Katniss Everdeen alter ego.  I fully believed I could engage and win in a survival of the fittest game if it ever came to it.   Going over a week without a shower and blindly navigating my way from the kitchen to my bedroom after my midnight snack made me the toughest human being on the planet.

My experiences helped me understand what it was like to struggle in an apocalyptic situation, and I wanted to compare my survival notes during Sandy with the characters on Revolution.  I was sitting on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, holding a goblet full of wine when I realized I was sorely mistaken in my assumptions about blackout survival tactics.

Imagining I was involved, I had to think about all the great attributes and skills I have that would benefit me in certain situations.  I made a mental list in my head of all my strengths: I’m a good leader.  I can help people.  I’m athletic.

But, the crippling reality of a non-electrical world harrowed on my soul to the point where I knew I had to make a blanket statement to the world about hanging out with me during an apocalypse.  I wanted to give everyone all the information before this actually happens.

I know how it goes.  The world blacks out and everyone immediately starts picking teams.  My intellectual prowess coupled with the fact that I won Best Athlete in the 8th grade superlatives makes me an obvious choice for your survival team.  But I have to be selfless and realize that even the strongest people in the world have weaknesses that can’t be ignored.

Here are a list of reasons you wouldn’t want me in your survival group in the event of an apocalypse. 

1. I’m essentially blind.

I have a contact prescription that is one point away from granting me a handicap sticker.  All you’d have to do is take away my glasses and tell me to head in the direction of a cliff or some quicksand and I’m gone.

2. I need at least 8 hours of sleep.

I get really cranky if I’m not properly rested.  I also need white noise in order to drift off into dreamland.  I realize this is an issue because night seems like the optimal time to stage an attack, and I like to have lights out by 9pm.

3. I have a pretty strict diet.

And by strict, I mean I eat like four things. Chicken, bacon, bread, and eggs.  I may dabble in a salad here and there, but only if there’s ranch dressing.

4. I can’t swim very well.

If there is any sort of water obstacle that needs to be overcome, don’t even think about it.  I’m as good a swimmer as a cinderblock.

5. I’m not a good multi-tasker.

I can’t even make toast without something sparking or blowing up.  Don’t even get me started on the disaster that would ensue if I had to run through a uncleared forest while simultaneously looking forward and backwards to thwart off attackers.

6. I have an atrocious sense of direction.

North is always straight ahead.

7. I think I’m always right.

Which I am. Obviously.

8. I’m not what some would call, in shape. 

My stamina is not up to par, so running for long periods of time isn’t generally a good idea.

9. People don’t describe me as swift, cunning, or stealth.

I don’t know how to whisper, my voice doesn’t do that.  Deaf people can hear me trying to sneak up behind them.

10. I’m not good at waiting. 

There’s no way in hell I’m staying for more than a day in one place. I’m not even good at waiting for a song to finish on my iPod before I change it.

All my faults aside, I’m still going to try and tag along even if you don’t want me.  I’m sure there’s someone weaker we can cut out first, right?

xoxo PickMePete

 

Let’s address the elephant in the room.

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Honestly, I’m about to drop some high voltage knowledge bombs about this goddamn pumpkin spice obsession.

I’m not going to say I hate it, because hate is a word I reserve for push button faucets and people who talk in elevators.

I’m just not all up in pumpkin’s face asking it to hang out with me.  I don’t let it have a special season, because that’s how egos grow, and I need pumpkins to know their place in this world.

Seasonal privileges are for treats that make you feel like you’re going to vomit if you so much as look at another piece.  Like candy corn. It’s a scientific law that candy corn has to get the hell out of your life by October’s end, because you start to see all foods in a tri-color hierarchy of white, yellow, and orange.

Let me make this perfectly clear, there are rules set in place that have been there for hundreds of years.  They were rules created by the bromagnons and the bromosapiens to protect our taste buds from over-indulgence.

In order to be a seasonal treat, you have to follow a strict criteria, which goes as follows:

1. It must be a treat that is solely used or consumed during a specific season.

ie. candy canes, candy corns, peeps, eggnog.

2. You must want to vomit after over-consumption of said treat.

Ever tried drinking Eggnog after December? It’s almost impossible. It’s at this time you may actually realize that it doesn’t even taste that good to begin with, and you’ll regret all of it.  Eggnog = regret. Remember that.

3. You can’t be a gourd.

Plain and simple, they are a decorative item in a cornucopia. You can’t have your own season if you’re part of a fucking cornucopia.

4. As  a seasonal treat, you have to have absolutely no value to the outside world after your said season is over.

You don’t see candy canes trying to make an appearance on Valentine’s day, or Peeps trying to squeeze their demonic candy crusted bodies into your summer pool party.  They know their place, they don’t want to be in the pool with you, they want to be there when you’re running around your house trying to find where your mom ninja-hid all the colored eggs.

There you have it. A tale as old as time, a song as old as rhyme.  Pumpkins, go back to your hole in the ground, ya gourdy betch.  You don’t deserve your own season; not on my watch.

Now let me go enjoy my Shipyard Pumpkin in peace.

xoxo, Pete