It’s been a little while since I’ve shared a Karina the Russian story. While I wasn’t present for this, I found it too hilarious not to share.

Karina was driving in the car with her young son Dima. They were listening to one of their favorite songs, singing along to the radio. As the song ended the DJ came on the air and said, “That was Gives You Hell by The All American Rejects.”

A few moments passed. Then Dima quizzically asked his mother, “Can only Americans be rejects? Are there Russian rejects too?”

Poor Karina.

She laughed so hard tears were running down her face. She had to pull over so she wouldn’t run off the road.

Finally, when she regained composure, she reassured him, “There is no such thing as a Russian reject honey, because Russians are perfect.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

K to the R stories, Story Time

Sometimes my logic is slightly off.

For example, I’ve been having trouble sleeping for the past forever. Sleeping medications have been a godsend for me, but I can’t help feeling that popping pills every night is not the “healthiest” thing to do.

Now I’ve never meditated before in my life, but for some reason I get the crazy idea stuck in my head that meditation is the answer to all of my sleep woes. It sounds so holistic and relaxing and shit. How could it not help me?

But how does one learn to meditate? Well if that one is me, and it is, it’s only a quick trip to iTunes away and BAM! Instant zen!

Because learning to meditate is just that easy.

Only it’s totally not, but that doesn’t stop me trying.

I found a series of free pod casts from an Australian meditation organization, downloaded the “beginner” one plus two others that sounded interesting, lay down in bed and listen to my first 23 minute meditation tutorial.

Sadly meditation is hard and I was still wide awake when the Aussie guru thanked me for sharing my journey with him so I took a pill and figured I’d try again the next day. The guru said I should meditate upright anyway after all.

The next day my mind was still on meditation. As I walked to my car from my morning classes, I had the most brilliant idea ever! Why not listen to the “Work” meditation, on my way to work? Makes total sense, right? That way I would totally be all zenerific and ready to kick ass by the time I rolled into the parking lot.

So I buckle up and hit play and the next thing I know I am going 75 mph on the freeway chanting I am not my body. I am not my body. I am not my body. While trying to make myself unaware of my surrounding and not feel my physical body.

Right…

Then the Aussie guru tells me to take more deep breaths and calmly chant: I am my soul. I am my soul. I am my heart, and I am my soul!

Of course I’m doing so as I cut people off while trying to merge onto the off ramp as I laugh at just how ridiculous I am.

People, I was trying to cram in time to learn how to meditate! WHILE DRIVING!!!

When I rolled into the parking lot, I was still not convinced I had reached my desired level of Zen. I popped my ear buds in and continued listening and chanting as I walked across two intersections and rode the elevator to the second floor. By the time I got to my work station I was really in tune with my soul.

And by soul, I mean the back of my head from rolling my eyes so much.

Perhaps meditation is lost on me. I really did give it an honest try. Alright, maybe half ass try is more appropriate, but still, I gave it shot. That’s better than NOT giving it a shot, right?

*Sigh*

Meditating while driving… I told you my logic was slightly off.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Story Time

Last weekend I went to a piano bar to celebrate a friend’s birthday/college graduation. While there I couldn’t help but laugh as I remembered the last time I took Karina the Russian to a piano bar.

For those of you who are not familiar with piano bars in general, let me paint the scene for you. There are two pianos on a slightly elevated stage with two piano players. Patrons of the bar request songs for the piano players to perform. With each song request you attach a little bit of cash. The higher the dollar amount the more priority your request gets. The piano players play any song – so long as they know it.

In my experience, piano bar crowds are typically the loudest and the most intoxicated.  There is a unique culture to piano bars, a drunken one, but one nonetheless. Shots are passed around and bar tabs are never small. Everyone sings along at the top of their lungs. There are even a certain chants that take place which the artists, I’m sure, never intended to be inserted. Such as Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline Bum Bum Buuuum! Or Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffet. Salt! Salt! Where’s the F**king Salt!

Piano bars are a rowdy good time.

So now imagine you have lived in the United States for less than ten years and your friends drag you to a bar that primarily plays songs from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and everyone but you is smashed and singing along to every song. Then your friends have the drunken audacity to say things like, “I can’t believe you don’t know this song! How can you NOT know this song?”

Poor Karina, at first she was a good sport, until someone (ahem) pushed it too far and said to her, “Come on now, you HAVE to know this song! It’s freaking PIANO MAN by Billy Joel!”

She looked at me and said, “Next time I am going to take you to a bar in Russia and ask you why YOU don’t know all of the songs that everyone is singing along to!”

Point taken.

We’ve never gone to another piano bar together since.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

K to the R stories, Story Time

When I was a little girl, I was notorious for cutting my own hair. One time, after my mom started hiding all the scissors around the house, I went so far as to cut my hair using her shaving razor while taking a bath. True story.

Turns out, the desire to walk around looking like your parents want you to be the nerdy kid who gets teased at school, is genetic. Over the weekend my niece, Ro, decided cutting her hair was a brilliant idea.

Almost makes you want to cry.

I wasn’t there but the story, as I understand it, goes like this:

Ro was playing kitty, crawling around on the floor and lapping up milk from a bowl. Her beautiful locks were getting in her face so my mother, whose house she was at, told her to grab an elastic from the bathroom and she would pull her hair back. Ro walked into the bathroom and saw a pair of scissors on the counter (my younger sister is a beautician and was cutting my older sisters hair just moments earlier). So Ro thought, why pull my hair back, when I can just cut it out of my way?

Ro walked out of the bathroom, after only being gone for mere seconds, sporting a side mullet. It scared my mother so bad that she started screaming, which in turn scared Ro.

To give you a frame of reference, her hair used to hang about 2" below her shoulders.

If she looks unhappy in this picture, it’s because her mother (my older sister), nearly killed her.

What else is there to do in a situation like that, but to cut the rest off?

Here she is getting the rest of her hair chopped off.

So short!

The next day, Ro wore her BEST princess dress to church so that no one would think she was a boy.

Oh the logic of a six year old. If only all of life’s problems could be solved with princess dresses.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Story Time

Saturday night, as I was getting ready for my big anniversary dinner with ED, I get a text message from my mom.

“Just FYI. Dad is @ the ER with a bad burn to the hand. He is going to be ok.”

Right. Only in my family does a text message, such as this, come as no surprise.

I text her back asking for more details. She tells me that he got a CHEMICAL burn while at work. About an hour later she sends me this picture.

I've aptly named this photo, "Mummy Hand"

Apparently, while at work and wearing “work issues” gloves, he somehow got CF (Calcium Fluoride?) on his hand. Turns out there was a small tear somewhere on the glove. Now pops has third degree CHEMICAL burns covering his hand.

He is out of work for three weeks and has to go to the burn unit daily where they are removing skin and grafting new.

Awesome.

Traditionally I yell at my dad whenever he gets hurt because, well, normally it’s his fault. This time it’s not his fault…

Guess you’re off the hook this time, Dad.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

UPDATE: They have started debriding (removing the skin) from my dads thumb today. They debrided his middle finger yesterday.We will know in 10-14 days if skin grafts will be needed.

I am posting a picture… with hesitation and a warning.

If you have a weak stomach please DO NOT scroll down. It really is nasty. Consider yourself warned.

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I hope you didn't just have lunch. Bleh!

Loved One(s), Story Time

Over the Christmas weekend ED and I went to stay with his family in the country and we brought along  my little sister Staci. She was looking for a distraction since it was her daughters fathers weekend to have her.

Staci and I grew up in the middle of Mormon suburbia. There was nothing country about our upbringing, unless you count listening to country music–which we totally did, although I don’t admit to it often (I blame my older sister for dating a cowboy when she was 15). Growing up we always went boating and camping, but if you ask ED, we never did REAL camping. Whatever! Houseboats and motorhomes totally count as real camping!

When we got there we had a laundry list of fun activities we wanted to do: eat,  drink, shoot guns, go sledding and ride horses. Not necessarily in that order. Only, there were a few problems. 1. Staci didn’t have winter/snow boots. 2. We didn’t have a sled and 3. It was freaking freezing!

We decided to seek out boots and a sled on our first day there. After six different stores in three different towns we finally ended up at Wal Mart where Staci found some snow boots.

Pink snow shoes! What could be more appropriate?*

Wal Mart didn’t have sleds, so we ended up going to a tire store and purchasing some large inter tubes. Unfortunately by this point we were racing the sun so we were only able to get one quick run down what we deemed a sledding hill off the side of the highway.

Here is a video of Staci and ED’s nephew braving the slope airplane style (video is courtesy of my new Christmas present from ED!).

The next day it was too cold to shoot guns, sled or ride horses. We did however, need to feed the horses out in the field. In order to do so we needed to dress appropriately for the weather. Fortunately there just so happened to be enough full body carhart suits to go around.

After Staci and I suited up, we went to show ED’s father our work digs. Staci made sure to point out her new shiny pink boots to which ED’s father responded, “Now Staci, I want you to be careful not to lift up your pant leg while you are out there.” To which she asked, “Why?”. His response, “I don’t want you scaring the  horses.”

Of course he was teasing her. That’s one of the things I love about ED’s family, it’s filled with a bunch of smart asses!

Just a couple of your average country girls standing by a tractor of some sorts.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

For more pictures, check out my Fickr account by clicking here.

* I realize the picture is sideways, but have no idea why. Meh, it works.

Holidays, Story Time

For Christmas this year my sisters and I all went in on a Wii Fit for my parents. I swear to you I am trying to do anything and everything in my power to get my parents to do activities to improve their health and therefore their quality  of life.

Last Christmas I bought them Xagave natural sweetener because it is better for you than real sugar and you can bake with it. They used it, liked it, but never re-ordered it again.

The year before that I bought them detoxifying aural-spray which is supposed to boost immunity and rid you of environmental toxins. They used it until it was gone and again, never re-purchased.

For a combination mothers day and fathers day present my sister and I bought my parents a gym membership. They still have not even put on gym shoes and walked through monstrous athletic doors.

You’d think I would give up. But no. I am resilient! And selfish. I want my parents to be around for a very very long time, so I keep trying.

Sadly, this years gift backfired on me the same as all of the rest. On Christmas eve my parents convinced me to set up a profile and to try a few games. I had already watched several other people play and was convinced I could do better them them. Word to the wise, arrogance will get you no where.

I stepped onto the Wii board and prepared to karate chop in rhythm and, of course, right into first place. I started off strong, but I think it was the kick-chop-punch move that got me; only it also got my potty mouth and before I knew it I let out an exasperated “FUCK!”. To which my prudent mother promptly reprimanded me. I said I was sorry, oh so incredibly sorry, in between stifled giggles while continuing to kick-punch-punch the screen.

I got third place. Yet another failed Christmas gift.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Holidays, Loved One(s), Story Time

The other day I was driving in the car with my BFF, Karina the Russian. One of the trendy “top 40’s” radio station decided to play a re-mix of the old classic “Grandma Got Ran Over By A Reindeer“. Now I have heard this song countless times, I am pretty sure we even sang it in Elementary school for a Christmas concert. It has always been just a silly, funny, harmless song. That is, until I saw it through Karina’s eyes.

Karina: “Are you listening to what this song is saying? This song is so messed up! Are they saying what I think they are saying? Listen!”

“and incriminatin’ Claus marks on her back. Oh! Grandma got run over by a reindeer, walking home from our house Christmas eve. You can say there’s no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa we believe.”

Luckily the remixed version of the song, with all it’s electronic drum beats, stopped there and mixed itself on to a different song. I’d hate to think of what Karina would have thought if she heard the rest of the song go on to talk about Grandpa watching football and drinking beer or the dilemma of opening Grandma’s gifts or sending them back. I’m sure that would have made her completely loose faith in Americans forever!

He. Will. Pay.

Summer

*This post was originally posted last year, but it is one of my favorite holiday stories about Karina the Russian so it bares repeating.

Holidays, K to the R stories, Story Time

I used to work in radio as an account executive for a few various stations which will remain un-named. Account executive is a fancy way of saying I sold air time, or commercials. It was a gig I really enjoyed, mainly because it gave me the ability to meet a lot of musicians.

Have I ever mentioned how much I love musicians? Have I told you how much I thoroughly enjoy going to concerts? No? News to you? Well there is a category on my side bar called “Concert whore” so that should give you some sort of idea.

Throughout the years I have grown to realize that musicians are people, just like you and me… only with lots of money, big egos and substance abuse problems. Don’t get me wrong, it is still really freaking cool to meet them, but I don’t get my panties all in a wad about it anymore. I can be relaxed and non-spazmatic while meeting stars like Aaron Lewis, Tommy Lee, Maroon Five, Nickleback (ED loves to tease me about that one!), Third Eye Blind, Candlebox, Hinder, Alanis Morissette… you get the picture.  So I am not entirely sure why, with all the experience I have of meeting celebrities, I completely forgot how to speak when I met Dooce last week.

Ms. Twenty-Six herself was signing copies of her book “It Sucked and Then I Cried” at Kings Bookstore for their holiday open house. When I found out about the book signing (through her blog, which I read everyday), I knew I wanted to go. I’ve only ever heard great things about her from friends who either know her or have met  her. Plus, if I am being completely honest, she is pretty much my hero. My blogging hero.

I got to the bookstore just slightly after the open house started. It was pretty packed and I had never been there before so I just started wandering. I turned a corner, looking absentmindedly at books, and there she was. I took a deep breath and walked right up to her table. Instantly any knowledge of how to form words or sentences or thoughts, went straight out the window. She looked at me standing there saying nothing but smiling and playing with the corner of my coat jacket like a lovesick school girl, then casually looked over at her husband Jon giving him the oh great we have another crazy one here look, and greeted me warmly.

Hours after I leaving the book signing, I was still mentally slapping myself on the forehead for acting like such a complete and utter idiot! I’m not one who is prone to beating myself up needlessly, but I could not for the life of me let go of what a spaz I was. She was so incredibly… nice… and normal… and actually tried to have a conversation with me. I say “tried” because it had to be difficult to converse with someone who just keeps smiling and nodding and who couldn’t answer the simplest of questions!  When I did manage to speak, I mumbled something about being a blogger and SHE ASKED FOR MY CARD!!! and then I fainted. Okay, so I didn’t actually faint, but it would have been less dramatic than the scene I made, violently digging through my purse muttering “bah… bah… bah…”, until I found it.

Honestly, it was like I didn’t even recognize myself.

When I got home that night I emailed her to apologize for being such a spaz, you know, cause nothing says “I’m not a whack job” like emailing someone you just met 30 minutes after meeting them to tell them you are not actually a freak in real life?

Lord I’m retarded.

I suppose I’ll stick to meeting rock stars from now on because my precious ego can’t take meeting another person I admire.

Have you ever made an ass of yourself in front of someone you admire or am I just special, and by special I mean retarded?

Blogfully yours,

Summer

blogging, Concert whore, Story Time

My kitchen, which I am actually starting to use as more than a room to store wine and cottage cheese, is dark. I’ve been ignoring how dark it is by turning on the light above the stove and the one above the sink every time I go in there, for, I don’t know, THREE MONTHS NOW!

I decided on Sunday I would break down and buy light bulbs. Only problem was, they are the long skinny florescent ones. Waaaay more complicated than the regular (cork screw CFL) bulbs I buy for lamps.

So I did what any girl would do. I called for reinforcement from my BFF Karina the Russian.

We decided the “smart” thing to do would be to have the measurements with us, but since neither of us had a pen and paper handy–and by handy I mean in our hands at that very moment–I grabbed my POS phone and snapped this lovely pic.

I don't know why there are lines. I do know that I freaking miss my freaking iPhone!

We left the house in search of the land of orange, also known as Home Depot, where we quickly spotted the isle with light bulbs that look like they belong in a Star Wars movie. We stood there staring blankly at the bulbs until a helpful orange-caped superhero walked up, ready to save us.

Little did he know, we came prepared. I whipped out my phone and, careful not to show him the kissyface photo I sent to ED earlier in the day, showed him exactly what we needed.

He tried really hard not to laugh at us.

Then he asked us if we knew what the length was.

“Length? You mean that wasn’t in the picture?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. Apparently our plan was not so fool proof after all.  “Umm… about this long?”  I say, now holding out my hands to motion what I later found out was two feet and no, not in the picture.

Feeling slightly retarded, we got our receipt and left our minimum wage superhero with a smirk of amusement from the two bimbos trying to buy a light bulb. Karina looked at me and said, “you know, either this would be the greatest phone commercial ever or the greatest blond joke ever.”

I tell her, “I know! Right? How many blonds does it take to buy a light bulb? Only I’m not blond…”

“Now watch, we will get home and it will be the wrong size!”

And, of course…

We get home, stand on our tippie toes, unscrew the old bulbs (what? We are both super tall. We don’t need no stinkin stools!) and replace them with the new ones.

And… they don’t work.

They were the right size, but for some ridiculous reason that has eluded me, my kitchen is still freaking dark!

So how many blonds does it take to change Summer’s light bulbs? You fill in the blank.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

K to the R stories, Nerdom, Story Time