Fell in Love with Hockey

I am not what you would call a sports fan. I mean, I enjoy going to professional games . . . mostly for the camaraderie and the nachos. I don't really care if the team wins or loses for my own sake. If a Chicago team is playing, I really just want them to win so Troy won't be grouchy for the rest of the day. I didn't grow up in a family where many of our activities and television usage was centered around sports. I guess there were a few exceptions. My mom was a pretty intense Cubs fan for a good while and of course the Bulls games were always on during the "3-Peat, Re-peat", and you can generally catch my dad watching drag racing on Sunday, but that's about it.

Those of you who know Troy could imagine the culture shock I encountered when I married him, where the label 'sports fanatic' is an understatement. Troy loves Chicago sports like he loves this country, and being the good wifey that I am, I often endure the seemingly endless Sox, Bears and Blackhawks games. Tonight was such a night. Troy bought tickets to see the Blackhawks play the Minnesota Wild here in St. Paul. I generally enjoy watching hockey above all other sports because of the fast-pace of the game and was excited to go to the game, but I had no idea that this particular game would change my life.

It started out innocent, as most things usually do. We had great seats on the lower level and Troy wanted to go down to the glass before the game started to watch the players practice. I followed him and we plopped down in a couple of seats that were three rows behind the glass. I wouldn't say I was brimming with excitement, but I thought it would be cool to see the players up close. When the Hawks came out from the locker room onto the ice, I was so thrilled, I don't even know what hit me. I started taking pictures like I was commissioned by TMZ. I kept turning to Troy and squealing something like, "Look!! There's Kane! Oh my gosh, there's Toews! There's Sharp!!" It was ridiculous. I realized at that moment that I would never be able to meet these people in person. I would make a complete fool of myself. I was borderline verklempt. Just when I thought things couldn't get any better -- I locked eyes with Patrick Sharp, the cutest hockey player on the team and I just so happen to have a hockey crush on that assistant captain, so like a fool, I smiled and waved to him. AND THEN . . . he gave me a little smile and two consecutive eyebrow shrugs. I may or may not have giggled like a 12-year-old at a Justin Bieber concert. Troy literally had to tear me away from the glass after that.

When we made it back to our seats, I could not take my eyes off the plays. I was in a zen-like focus for the remainder of the game. I even had to go to the bathroom and couldn't bear to leave during the periods. I held it throughout the whole game. What if something awesome would have happened?! I found myself muttering comments to myself (like Troy often does) and then out of nowhere, shouting out encouragements to the Hawks players, like they could hear me (Troy does this too). The last few minutes of the last period were starting to get intense because the score was 3-2 Hawks and we were down by one player. When Marian Hossa made a goal, I threw my arm up so fast in a fist pump that I almost took the lady sitting next to me out. In hindsight, it wouldn't have been that bad -- she was rooting for the Wild.

Besides the fact that the Blackhawks won, I got to witness a really awesome fight, see the players up close -- including my dreamy Patrick Sharp and we got some nachos to boot. Tonight, I fell in love with hockey and it was glorious.

Schmuck-Producing Ads

Little known fact about Pam Carlson - I have a degree in Business; Marketing to be more specific. So, I do have a slight interest in consumer behavior and I respect the creativity behind commercials and advertisements. However, I don't think you need a Business Degree in order to spot a ridiculous ad. I would hope that any Joe would pick up on the cheese-factor. Now, I don't know if the economy has forced companies to downsize their marketing budget, or if the creative juices of these commercial masterminds has suddenly dried up, but I have noticed a few ads that do nothing but make the American population seem like a bunch of lazy schmucks.

Schmuck-Producing Ad #1

A couple years ago there was a commercial for Olive Garden. I tried to look it up on YouTube but it was taken off. Probably because it is a breeding ground for divorce. It shows a woman and her daughter talking about how they go to the Olive Garden on "nights when Dad works late." Troy and I always thought this was ridiculous. I mean when I was growing up, on 'nights when dad worked late' my mom made fish sticks and macaroni and cheese for us. Apparently, Olive Garden likes to take advantage of missing family members. If this is the direction that the Olive Garden is looking to go with their ads, here are a few more ideas that they can use . . . free of charge:

- When Grandpa's in the hospital having a tumor removed, my cousins and I like to hit up the Olive Garden!
- When my wife is giving birth, I like to meet up with the guys at Olive Garden!
- When my son is playing his championship little league game, I like to sneak out with the hubby to the Olive Garden!

Schmuck-Producing Ad #2
This week I heard a radio ad at the health club for Yo-plait Frozen Smoothies. It went something like this: "Yesterday my friend called me and told me she was really craving a smoothie, but it is such a hassle! You have to buy the fruit and mash it up. Don't you wish there was an easier way to enjoy a healthy snack? Well, now there is! Yo-plait Frozen Smoothies! Find them in your grocer's freezer!" I almost laughed out loud when I heard this. How difficult it is really to make a fruit smoothie at home? My mother-in-law makes them many mornings for her breakfast. I have never heard her complain about how they are 'such a hassle.' The next thing I am going to hear is that making your morning coffee is too much work . . .

Schmuck-Producing Ad #3
Enter my next ridiculous commercial: 5 Hour Energy. I have in the past mentioned my feelings about this apparent super drink, but I have also seen commercials for this product that make it seem like making coffee is just too much work. Making coffee is one of the simplest tasks I do all day. Obviously, these people can not be true coffee lovers to make a blasphemous statement like that. What do these lazy people do when they have to change the toilet paper roll or fill up their car with gas? Life must be so exhausting for them. Here's one of their commercials:

Alright, I'll get off my soap box now. I mean, apparently this is just the way that companies view us - schmucks. Well, I'll show them. But if I'm going to take on Corporate America, I'm going to need a plan. Maybe I'll work one up during dinner tonight. I mean, Troy is home sick with the flu, and that's when I like to go to the Olive Garden!

Champagne Taste on a Beer Budget

I love a good bargain. I think this was instilled in me by my grandparents who still live financially like we are in the Depression. I have a hard time paying full price for many things . . . unless we are in dire need of it; for example a new bathtub. (We paid full price for that puppy. There was no waiting for Home Depot to have a sale nor was there any regret over that decision.) One great thing about being thrifty is that sometimes you are able to buy items that are unique and other people wouldn't be able to find. It's fun to know you have a one of a kind. When I see signs for flea markets, estate sales and church rummage sales, it really gets my heart pumping. (Yes, I just said that and I am only slightly embarrassed by it, but not so much that I would consider rephrasing it.) All this being said, I would not call myself cheap. In fact, cheap people annoy the heck out of me, but I do still have my old financial situation in the back of my mind from when I was single and was making choices like whether I should get gas or groceries for the week. (I ate a lot of Ramen then and, consequently, was a dress size smaller . . .) So, I often find it hard (and sometimes unwise) to "splurge" even though I am not worried about bouncing checks.

All of this random back information leads up to what happened this morning. I was organizing a stack of catalogs we had in our coffee table cubbyholes and decided to peruse them one more time before recycling them. In the pile was a catalog for Pottery Barn . . . the booklet that contains the glorious housewares to the decorating mecca. I don't know how my name got on the coveted mailing list for PB but it did, and now they torment me with their beautiful accessories, monogrammed pillowcases and handsome wood furniture pieces that grace the pages of their Booklet of Desires. Every time I turn the page, I spot something that would look perfect in our home. I cock my head to the side, scrunch up my face in awe and then sigh deeply as I look at the price. If I was able to pick out everything I wanted in that catalog, I would have to take out a second mortgage on our home. Pottery Barn has become another of my Love/Hate Relationships. Love the style, hate how they take you to the cleaners on the price.

While I was wistfully coveting all that PB has to offer the American consumer, I was also watching HGTV, obviously, and watching the creative designers masterfully transform the room they are designing into a new oasis for the homeowner. Between that and my PB experience, I was beginning to enter a dark designing place where I think, ''I need to redecorate.'' (Don't worry, Troy, I won't . . . . we have our hands full with the bathroom). After I took a few deep breaths, I realized that I was getting sucked into the American Dream that is like the pink elephant in the room. You know, the one that says, ''you can have it all now, you just need to hand over your first child as payment.'' Or you may have heard it phrased like, ''you can have it all now, who cares if you go into financial ruin.''

So, I guess the lesson learned today is one of the following:

1. Pottery Barn is clearly from the devil. One should never read the temptations it has splashed over in its sinful pages.

. . . or . . .

2. Don't organize the coffee table.

Dental Communication

I am one of those people who generally forgoes the convenience of technology for human contact. I like to walk into the bank and speak to the tellers instead of going through the ATM. I would rather converse with a cashier than enter the self check out line. I prefer to purchase clothes, books, etc at a store rather than online. I know that I may be in the minority here, and even though I would consider myself to be an introverted person, I like those personal connections. I like shooting the breeze with people and I even enjoy the surface conversations - only because they are so brief. Sometimes, when I am feeling frisky, I like to challenge myself with those grumpy folks and figure out how I can make them smile before I leave. I should warn you that I am pretty good at this and generally dominate the challenge.

There is only one place where these friendly conversations are difficult. The dentist. I took one of my bajillion (yeah, that's right, a bajillion) sick days to go get my teeth cleaned at the dentist today. **Side Note: My dentist said I have great teeth and I am at low risk for cavities, mouth cancer and gum disease. I am patting myself on the back right now.** The staff at my clinic is really friendly and I always seem to get the same spunky red-headed hygienist who remembers me and our past conversations. There is usually a friendly tête-à-tête on the way to the dentist chair, but then when my mouth becomes a host to a plethora of dentist instruments, the conversations still continue. I always think to myself, "Am I supposed to answer that right now?" Now, my spunky, red head has turned these conversations into an art form. She'll ask me a question and then pull the instruments out so I can answer. But with those who don't have her finesse, I have been known alternate "uh-huhs/uh-uhs" with small laughs or in desperate times, muffled answers.

I feel like this is a common problem when someone goes to the dentist. It is natural to want to have a conversation with someone, especially when their face mere inches away from your face but obviously the nature of the meeting makes this a little challenging. So I have taken it upon myself to do a little brainstorming and troubleshooting for this issue. Here are a few ideas so far.


1. Magna Doddles. Remember those? They are an awesome blast from the past and would be a great way to help their patients communicate with the hygienists. As an added bonus, they are also "green" since they are reusable. On second thought, maybe that would be awkward since you would have to write with your arms up in the air to see what you're writing. I am thinking that may get in the way of the hygienists scrapping at the plaque on your teeth.

2. Morse Code. Patients and staff could learn Morse code. Hygienists could speak audibly and then patients could respond with dots and dashes. This might be a little challenging since Morse Code is used many by secret agents and spies. But as an added bonus, patients might be able to nab a Russian spy with this new language. I am thinking the benefits don't outweigh the problems with this idea.

3. Sign Language. Though a valid idea, I am thinking we would run into similar problems that we had with the Magna Doddle. We would have to put our hands up in the air and thus risk getting in the middle of the work being done on our teeth.

Alright, so this is clearly a working document, but I am thinking that maybe all hygienists should take a lesson from my red headed friend and just politely take out the utensils when they ask their patients a question . . . although I would love to work out the kinks in that Magna Doodle idea.

John Henry vs. Toy Story

This morning, I was in the middle of my usual primping ritual before work. I turned on my curling iron, went down stairs to brush my teeth and wash my face (due to the fact that we are still sans an upstairs bathroom) and went back upstairs to curl my hair. The cord to the curling iron kept getting caught under my dresser. After fixing the cord the first few times, it continued to get tangled and, I swear that dang cord was doing it on purpose. I started getting frustrated . . . maybe even grunted a little bit . . . and tried to whip it out from under the dresser. In that moment, I had a John Henry epiphany.

For those of you who don't know, John Henry is a fictional character (although there are some who believe he actually lived) who tried to outwork the steam-powered hammer during the railroad boom but ultimately fails and dies trying. In case you're worried, I did not die while I was curling my hair, but I was fighting a (wo)man vs. machine battle and when I get super frustrated, I am concerned that the machine is winning.

Do you ever have those days when you feel like "stuff" is against you? I swear, it feels like either your appendages cannot function properly or these inanimate objects are all out to get you. Maybe your towel keeps falling off the hook you're trying to place it on. Maybe your shirt is all rolled up and trying to attack you while you're putting it on. (I have that problem with sports bras. I know those things are supposed to keep the girls in line, but I am telling you, it's a battle every time I put one on.) These John Henry moments give us the opportunity to rise above the machine, but sometimes it is so strenuous.

When I was young, I was one of those kids who wondered if my toys came alive when I left the room. There was just no way that Barbie's face could be that smiley all the time. I knew she was up to something. After watching Toy Story 3 the other night, it is a fun and somewhat frightening thought that sometimes still enters my mind. Maybe our things really are alive. Maybe my curling iron didn't appreciate being chucked into my dark and lonely closet while I was tidying up. Maybe my sports bra doesn't appreciate the swoobs and being shoved in my gym bag after having endured an intense workout. Maybe these little attacks are a form of retaliation.

Then again, I could just have a mental problem compounded with a lack of fine motor skills . . . .

Super Bowl Sunday

Here we are. This is the day I have looked forward to ever since preseason began. Today is the last day of football - until the beginning of September. Today is the day that the heavens open up and the angels sing a chorus of hallelujahs because this is the last Sunday that will revolve around football for many months. This is the day that football relinquishes its firm grip on my husband and our friends and lets wives enjoy Sundays with their spouses again. Today is Super Bowl Sunday.

I actually like Super Bowl Sunday for the reasons mentioned above and because it is a day that usually involves friends and food. I love both of these things. The guys generally are more concerned about the game and the food, but us ladies like to get together to gossip and talk about the commercials, cute new shoes, and probably tampons or some other female issue will make an appearance in the conversation. I also love how our dinner is basically composed of appetizers. I love appetizer dinners. It feels so wrong, and yet so right.

This year I have surprised myself and actually want a specific team to win. I usually don't care and chose the team that has the nicest team colors/mascot or the cutest quarterback, but this year is different. This year the Packers are playing. I am not a hard core Bears fan, but I am a big enough Bears fan to want the Packers to go back to Green Bay with their tail between their legs and so I am jumping on the Steelers' bandwagon, wallowing in the fact that if Jay Cutler wasn't such a Nancy, the Bears could be playing today . . . but that is another blog.

The Super Bowl really is an American institution. My parents even watch it and they hate football. There is something congruent about the Super Bowl and togetherness. It's nice to know that most Americans will be tuning into tonight's game. My friends in California and Massachusetts will probably be watching. My cousins in Colorado will tune in. My parents and in-laws will be cheering. It's nice to know that even though we all live far away from each other, today we will be united . . . over a bunch of guys humping a pig skin.

If that isn't American, I don't know what is.

Humoring Your Humor

I am lucky enough to have a plethora of funny people around me. My husband for one, who does and says crazy things all the time, has on many occasion made me lose motor functions due to his antics. My sister, who is the only one who can understand me through my laughter, as she spits out one-liners left and right. I also know a handful of people at work who make me smile when I see them because I know something funny is just waiting to bust out of their lips.

Unfortunately, I also seem to be surrounded by a plethora of people who are not funny . . . but who think they are. These are the same people who lay out painfully dry comments with a look on their face that tells you that they are amused by their own comments. Good for you . . . because I am less than thrilled over here. There is one person who immediately comes to mind. His jokes are so bad that I have implemented the Three Laughs and You're Out Rule. The rule is simple. I will fake-laugh at three of his bad jokes. Then I'm done. Not even a snicker after that. Straight up . . . stone, cold, face. And I don't even feel bad. I already gave him three pity laughs. That's all I can do. Now he needs to take a hint. I'm not doing this guy any favors by encouraging the poor humor.

I have lately gotten a lot of jokes relating to our unfinished bathroom. You may or may not be aware of the fact that we are renovating our bathroom. Long story short, we had to replace the tub and decided to do a gut job for a better resale value. We ripped out our bathroom the Monday before Thanksgiving and have not been able to shower at home since that Sunday before. Thankfully we are members at Lifetime Fitness and have been showering there. However, when I mention to people that we haven't showered at home in almost three months, the big joke is, "They haven't showered in three months," followed by a long pause as though they are waiting for me to roar with laughter. If you are reading this and happen to be one of the people who have thought this comment was funny, don't feel bad, you're not the only one who thought this was a hilarious joke. You should know that this is a very weak joke. If your first response is similar to something that 80% of the population would want to say, come up with some new material.

This made me wonder if I might be a humor snob. However, this would be an appropriate time to mention that I am a huge fan of lame jokes - that is jokes that are meant to be lame. For example, jokes that my students tell me or a play on words. If someone called me today and asked me if my refrigerator was running and then told me to go chase it, I would probably keel over. Can I still be a humor snob if I laugh at something like that? The next thought that I had while pondering this idea was even more scary. What if people think that my jokes are lame. Maybe there are people out there who implement their own Three Strikes and You're Out Rule with me. But then I realized that I am fantastically witty and charming and the possibility of that being true is so slim that I would more likely be probed by aliens.

Love/Hate Relationships

I had three goals for myself for the month of January since I was going to have more free time without any grad classes (Second semester starts in February). The first was to write an exorbitant amount of terribly witty blogs for my undying fans. The second was to sew a new swanky wardrobe with the new sewing machine my parents gave me for Christmas. The third was to get my scrapbook up to date on the vacations that Troy and I took. As you can see this is only my fifth blog for the month. I did take out my sewing machine and read the instruction manual cover to cover, but not even a stitch was sewn. And I did make some progress on the scrapbook, although I am still a whole year behind. So, basically, I am 0 for 3.

January was a month of reflection for me as I reveled in the time sans text books, research papers and lesson plans. I did think a lot about topics to write about for Nonsense. Though many of my ideas are still peculating, I do have one thought that may be refined enough to tide you over. This month I realized that I there are things in life that I love and hate at the same time. I call them, my Love/Hate Relationships.

This idea first came to my mind a couple of weeks ago. I was all snuggled in my warm bed, relaxing under the weight of the blankets and thinking to myself that I am so in love with this moment right now. I let the weight of the day sink into my mattress and rested my head carelessly on my Martha Stewart feather pillow. I realized that this moment would be fleeting. In what would feel like mere minutes, my alarm clock would be calling out to me, forcing me to greet the day. That was when I realized that I loved and hated that moment all at once. I loved how comfortable and quiet it was, but hated how short it would feel when the early morning alarm went off.

My next example takes you down a rabbit hole, but stay with me. I was casually looking at my rear end in the mirror, when I noticed that it didn't look quite so bumpy or gross as I last remembered. I will be honest in telling you that I may have lingered a longer glance than was necessary, but I felt like there was a noticeable difference. I had read in a magazine that if you rub lotion in a circular motion, it helps to reduce the appearance of cellulite. I thought it was a bunch of baloney at first but figured, why not give it a try. Fast forward to my derriér stare. My first thought as I looked in the mirror was, "Hmm, I guess that lotion rubbing really works." I am sure it didn't have anything to do with the endless squats, lunges and miles I have run for the past six months. The next time I was doing my lunges after my epiphany, I found my next Love/Hate Relationship. Squats and lunges. They destroy me. There are mornings that I have a hard time getting out of bed after a lower body workout. But my butt doesn't lie, therefore I also love them.

Reality T.V. has got to be the world's best example of a love/hate relationship. As I am typing, Jersey Shore keeps flashing me and I have a cramp in my neck from craning my head every few minutes to catch a glimpse. Am I slowing lowering my intelligence by watching this program? Most definitely. Will that stop me from finishing the episode? Probably not. Reality T.V. is taking over our minds. Whether you're addicted to the Bachelor, Kate plus 8, Sarah Palin's Alaska or American Idol, you love it. But isn't there a small part of you that also hates it at the same time? While you are sitting on your rump watching the boob-tube, everyday people are being filmed for television. Love/Hate Relationship.

So there you go. Love/Hate Relationships are those things you love and hate at the same time. You're welcome for that. Post your own Love/Hate Relationships. If you wanna . . . or don't. I'll probably Love/Hate them.

Minnesota Frump

When I was younger I had zero fashion sense. I hesitate in showing this picture because once something is uploaded on to the internet, it is out there forever, but for you to truly understand what I was working with, I had to post this embarrassing picture of myself in junior high school. Because I am not brave enough to stand up to the ridicule alone, my sister Laura is also in this picture. (Sorry Laura.) Regardless of her red-on-red ensemble, she did have a decent since of fashion considering this picture was taken circa 1995.

Look at me. First of all, I look like a boy which is never good, secondly between my braces and glasses I have more metal on my face than a Buick LaSabre, I am wearing an over-sized jean jacket and yes, that is a Santa Sweatshirt with matching sweatpants I am sporting. Thankfully when I got to high school, I started to care a little more about how I was presenting myself and college refined my look so now when I go out into public, I no longer scare small children or get mistaken for the opposite gender.

These fashion faux-pas are a huge reason why I have generally placed fashion over common sense in my young adult life. These are the reasons why I am constantly paranoid I am dressing like a "mom." For years I refused to own a pair of snow boots because I would rather have my frost-bitten toes jammed inside a pair of cute and dainty flats than warm and toasty clod-hopper-boots. I didn't wear stocking caps because quite frankly, they tend to look like male contraceptives on my head. I would often get reprimanded by mother-figures where I worked and one time was even threatened with a call home to my mom about my lack of precaution in the winter months.

However, living in Minnesota for five years of my post-college-life has me changing my view point and focusing more on common sense. This also has me feeling very frumpy. I am finding that I don't have much of a choice in the matter any more. These past couple of weeks have been so cold, with wind chills below zero. That combined with the fact that the Twin Cities had a record snowfall of over 30 inches for the month of December makes one want to bundle up. It also makes one feel like Ralphie's brother in A Christmas Story where you can't put your arms down. My friend Lisa and I took a picture where we are all bundled up. Though my countenance looks proud, I am absolutely not. I am . . . Minnesota Frumpy. High School Pam would be mortified by this picture. Although, she probably would have keeled right over to know that I had posted Junior High Pam on the internet.

All this to say that I think I might actually be a real adult now. I think this to be true because I am crossing over into the dark side. The side that cares more about dry feet and warm appendages rather than walking out to your car looking cute. I am starting to embrace the Minnesota Frump as common place and the norm for my everyday winter wardrobe . . . but I don't have to like it.

Dear Dunkin Donuts

Dear Dunkin Donuts,

As I sit on my couch this morning, I am savoring a cup of freshly brewed Dunkin Donuts coffee that my handsome husband so kindly purchased for me at CostCo. I am also being bombarded by the seemingly ubiquitous commercials that claim your franchises are close to my habitat. Alas, when I did a store search, I could not find a beloved DD within 50 miles. After I wept bitterly, I pulled myself together and did a little more soul searching. I found that there are plans of expanding your vast empire into the land of snow and cold that was perhaps overlooked due to its close proximity to Canada. 'Tis true, Minnesota is in fact part of the Midwest and we demand to be added to your 2,600 stores especially since you have infiltrated 30 countries. (Sigh . . . those lucky lands . . . )

Is it a crime that there are so many patrons who want to give you their money for a cup of your delicious, French Vanilla coffee with extra cream and two Splenda (that is a completely hypothetical coffee order)? Is it wrong that there are folks who have tasted the nectar of the gods and only desire to drink deeply from their coffee pots? I say nay!

So tease us no more with you coffee commericals! Give us a Dunkin Donuts store . . . . preferably on my way to work. America runs on Dunkin and I am an American!

Sincerely,
Pambo Jones