Until the Turkey Has Digested, Don’t You Dare Celebrate Christmas

Call me a Scrooge, but I simply cannot handle Christmas celebrations mid-November. Just last week, when I was out on my daily jog (daily, bi-weekly, same thing) I saw a man stringing Christmas lights. It was 78 degrees out. We were both sweating. I was doing physical exercise, he was decking the halls.

That’s just not natural. There are still leaves that have yet to fall! Hell, there are leaves that are still GREEN.

But even as a cold snap came through last week and things starting feeling extra wintery, I still found myself crusading against Entirely Too Early Christmas Tree Put-er Up-ers and I think I finally know why. It’s not because of the preordained four seasons, or the fact that I love the actual holiday of Thanksgiving with its bringing together of loved ones and food, glorious food. It’s because I grew up with Friends.

Yes, I am referring to a no longer on-the-air late 90’s, early 00’s television show, but hear me out.

At sixteen my most prized possession was a F*R*I*E*N*D*S t-shirt I had ordered online from the NBC Store via a dial-up AOL connection. Clearly, I was a fan with undeterred love. When I grew up, I wanted to be a Monica (but alas, I am a Phoebe with hints of Chandler.) I was obsessed and part of that obsession was the annual anticipation of the Thanksgiving episode. I’ve seen them all, thousands of times. I can quote most verbatim. In short, for a decade, in the years that I was not a girl, not yet a woman, I spent each Thanksgiving eagerly awaiting a 30 minute block of comedy on NBC and it simply just wasn’t the Christmas season until after that episode aired.

Regardless of the fact that Friends has long been off the air and there is not a Thursday night sitcom I watch these days (sorry, I just don’t get The Big Bang Theory), instilled in my heart is the belief that it’s just not Christmas until after all Thanksgiving-themed episodes air (which will be this week.) All Thanksgiving episodes are such an exciting part of the fall season for me, a gooby tradition, but MY tradition. And maybe, the fellow fall faithful feel the same way, except their Christmas season is heralded in by other traditions, like the Egg Bowl, a deerstand, the Macy’s Day Parade, or just the good ole fashioned digestion of a wonderful Thanksgiving meal with the fam. I think we’re so adamantly against premature Christmas seasons because we don’t want to sacrifice one traditional holiday in rush for another. We don’t want to wish our days away, especially when they’re beautiful, crisp, multi-colored ones.

Before I step down from my autumnal soapbox and give thanks to one of my treasured Thanksgiving traditions by presenting you with the top 5 Friends Thanksgiving Episodes (I know there were 10 Thanksgiving episodes, but of those 10, five were really, really good,) I leave you with this thought:

At its heart, Thanksgiving is just about the simplest holiday we celebrate. No gifts are expected; there’s no tree to chop down; no popular songs dedicated to its folly. We don’t even have to think too hard about the food we’ll eat –– the traditional menu has been planned for us for generations. All we’re expected to do is sit down with friends and family, eat a whole lot –– and say thank you. It’s very basic, but also very profound. May we be grateful and give thanks.

#5: “The One Where Ross Got High” (Season 6)
Like Joey, I really think I’d enjoy Rachel’s trifle: Custard, good. Jam, good. Meat, good! Also, I love nothing more than Fat Monica Anecdotes-Hurricane Gloria didn’t break the porch swing, Monica did.

#4: “The One with the Football” (Season 2)
Isn’t this what Thanksgiving is all about? Food, football, and cutthroat sibling rivalry? The Gellers are in fine form in this episode, with a series of hilarious brother-sister moments that are topped only by their epic New Year’s Eve dance routine from season 6.

#3: “The One with All the Thanksgivings” (Season 5)
A severed toe and the classic turkey-on-the-head scene in one episode? Bliss.

#2: “The One with Chandler in a Box” (Season 4)
Thanksgiving episodes are all about people reaching breaking points, and this one had the best: Monica’s freakout (“married a lesbian, left a man at the altar, fell in love with a gay ice dancer, threw a girl’s wooden leg in a fire, live in a box!”)

#1: “The One with the Rumor” (Season 8)
High-profile guest stars don’t always make for good episodes, but Brad Pitt’s turn as the former president of the I Hate Rachel Green Club was a stroke of sheer genius. Also: maternity pants. But, more importantly: Brad Pitt. Sigh, #TeamAniston4Life

Writer’s Block No More

So, here I am at work, splitting my time between day-dreaming about Tina Fey high-fiving me in celebration of my Emmy win for Best Writing in a Comedy Series and reflecting on the fact that I haven’t written something that didn’t have to do with hydraulic fracturing or EPA regulatyh7uhhhhjhhhhhhhhhdulllllllllllllllllllllllll (yowza, sorry, knocked myself unconscious typing out those two barrels of fun topics) in ages.

I flew to Chicago this weekend and it was while waiting in the Southwest terminal of the Medger Will They Evers Renovate airport that a close friend of mine asked the simplest question that sent me into the most dramatic tailspin of identity crisis: “You don’t write anymore, why not?”

Why not?

A question so simple, children usually ask it 3948390 times a day. And so I gave a simple answer. I gave a answer I’ve been giving A LOT these past two years: “I’m busy with work.”

As you can see by the green dot by my name in your Facebook chat and my like on your latest Instagram photo, I ain’t that busy.

So here I go, I’m going to try this thing again. It’ll probably be rough at first, if you’re even still with me (Hi, thanks!) but let’s do this!

Death of a Hamster

This story contains material that may be unsuitable for all PETA supporters and animal advocates.  Animals were indeed harmed.  Well, technically just one animal was harmed.  And it was a hamster.  Which is classified as a rodent and rodents totally repulse people, right?  So in a way, the harming of the animal was totally beneficial to society….Yeesh, who am I kidding, this animal was the beloved class pet of my brother’s 5K class and the damn thing was insanely cute and precious and we murdered him, just straight up stole the youth and life from that damn hamster, but before you start convicting me of intentional hamsterslaughter, lemme esplain.

The year was 1999.  I was a lovely and awkward young lady of the ripe old age of 11.  I was rocking orange and turquoise braces, red Old Navy pleather pants, a shirt that I’m sure incorporated some sort of neon-colored animal print, and a hairstyle that could best be described as butt-cut mullet.  I was a sight for very sore eyes.  But this story isn’t about me, it’s about my brother and the hamster we murdered so let’s break down the case of the murdered hamster Law and Order style.

Friday, September 15, 1999

3:05 p.m.  It was a glorious day for little Daniel Goodman. After weeks of anticipation, it was finally his turn to take the 5K class pet hamster, aptly named Oscar (which is also our grandfather’s name) home for the weekend.  He was overjoyed, but our mother was less than enthusiastic.  The survival rate of pets at the Goodman household was less than stellar.  And these pet deaths weren’t your regular get-hit-by-a-car deaths.  They were “Oh Savannah, your dad accidentally confused the dog food bag with a chemical seed bag and accidentally fed him chemicals” or “We’re sorry about your kitten Laura, but it was so hot outside and Daniel just thought putting him in the freezer would cool him down.” Entirely too much unintentional animal cruelty took place at 230 Center Ridge Road and my mom knew that the beloved class pet coming home was a recipe for disaster. (The story of how Laura avenged the deep-freeze death of her kitten is another weirdly amusing story for another time.)

3:07 p.m. Mom winced as she saw her little man gayly skiddaddling towards the car holding a rectangular plastic contraption otherwise known as a hamster home.  Her ultimate fear that afternoon was that Oscar’s home would be converted into a casket by the end of the weekend.

3:14 p.m. As soon as Laura said goodbye to her 1st grade Mean Girls clique (she is such a Regina George,) and I said goodbye to the stray dog who hung around the playground, we departed from school and partook in our daily stop at the Shell gas station to get Icees.  My little brother’s abject happiness brought out the best in me and I decided to share my culinary secret of combining BOTH the coke and cherry flavors to my younger siblings.  It was a very good day to be a Goodman.  I also picked up a pack of Big League Chew (did I learn nothing from the Bubble Gum Incident of ’94!)

3:23 p.m. So far, so good.  Oscar survived a car ride in the ole Suburban which included an insanely annoying squabble between me, Laura, and Daniel regarding our after school plans.  In addition to hearing three brats argue over whether their afternoon programming will be Saved by the Bell or Rugrats, he also received an ear-ful of Smash-Mouth’s album Astro Lounge.  Mom blaring “All-Star” was the only remedy to our incessant bickering. We freakin’ LOVED that song.

7:00 p.m. It appeared that Oscar would make it through the night.  Laura and I were completely engrossed in an episode of Boy Meets World while Daniel was well into the 2nd hour of his bubble bath (that kid loved all things Spongebob and bubble baths.) Mom breathed easy as the girls had the Matthews brothers and a teenage witch on their minds and Daniel was a splishin’ and a splashin’ pretending he was a pineapple under the sea.

Saturday September 16, 1999

8:00 a.m. Mom ensured that we would have little to no time to play with/torture Oscar by planning a day of activities.  And by activities, I mean she pulled out the slip-n-slide and handed us a bottle of dish soap. The woman was diabolically genius as ALL KIDS EFFIN LOVE SLIP N’ SLIDES.  Our day was booked solid and we wouldn’t see the interior of the house for at least 12 hours.

8:30 p.m. Stephanie Goodman took a victory lap around the yard to celebrate successfully running her children ragged with a slip n’ slide and a food-coma-inducing large stuffed-crust Pizza Hut pizza!  All children in bed just a’snoozin by 9:00.  Oscar lived to see another day.

Sunday (A day of infamy) September 17, 1999

7:00 a.m. Laura, Daniel and I awoke and immediately demanded Sunny D and eggs with yellow blood (this is how we referred to fried eggs over-easy… I’m now a little concerned about how we came up with such a gruesome way to describe eggs.)  Mom gave into our demands, and headed to the kitchen.

7:13 a.m. HAMMMMMMMMMSTER COME OUT TO PLAAAAAAAAAY

7:14 a.m. Murder weapons obtained: they included a towel and children’s imaginations

7:16 a.m. With a recent viewing of A Kid in King Arthur’s Court, we had in our minds that Oscar was going to be King Arthur and we were to be his overjoyed servants.  We petted Oscar entirely too-aggressively, tied a kleenex around his neck as a royal cape, and then proceeded to “Hail King Oscar.”

7:18 a.m. Laura grabbed one end of the towel as I grab the other and Daniel placed Oscar in the center of the towel. We began to flail the towel up and down causing the hamster to bounce up and down, similar to a trampoline. (Why we thought this was an appropriate way to celebrate the recent crowning of a hamster is beyond me.) Daniel then ran in circles around us bowing his arms up and down and screaming, “Hail King Oscwa!” “Hail King Osssssssscwwwaaa!” (Side note: Daniel had a speech impediment until age 9, he was COMPLETELY incapable of pronouncing his “r”s; insanely CUTE!)

(Another side note: If Oscar hadn’t had met his death that day, he was certainly going to be one emotionally scarred hamster with a terrifying fear of children for the remainder of his life. So… technically… he kinda had to die after we got through with him.)

7:19 a.m. and 22 seconds Me and Laura get swept up in the pretend celebration of King Oscwa and increasingly bounce the poor bastard higher and higher.. higher and higher.. higher and hi…… KAPLUNK!

7:19 and 25 seconds To our surprise, King Oscwa failed to land back down on the towel.  He was NOWHERE to be found.  Panic ensued.

7:20 a.m. Daniel and Laura proceeded to SCREAM BLOODY MURDER.  Strangely our mother did not hear.  I begrudgingly looked toward the ceiling expecting to find the bloody remains of Oscar.  No blood, no nothing…. except for one thing…… a wobbling ceiling fan blade.

7:21 a.m. Using my insanely naive 6th grade mentality, I came to the conclusion that, “Oh, silly hamster he must have hit the ceiling and landed on the fan blade. Get off the top of that fan blade silly hamster!” until I heard Laura shriek like a banshee.  She was pointing like a madwoman behind the couch.  SHE FOUND OSCAR!

7:22 a.m. Oscar was lying belly-side up behind the couch…. I used the skills I obtained from watching countless hours of Baywatch with Bubba and checked Oscar’s vitals.  DON’T DIE ON ME DAMNIT! Alas, no response from Oscar… he was stiff as concrete.

7:23 a.m. We then moved Oscar to the operating room, aka our laundry room.  Laura laid a small towel on the dryer.  (How poetic of us: death by a towel, resurrection by a towel.) I stood back with the mature mindset that this hamster was dead on arrival and there was nothing to be done.  Daniel, the eternal optimist, refused to let Oscar die without a fight.

(The following action by Daniel Edward Goodman is the quite possibly the FUNNIEST thing I have ever witnessed in my 21 years of life.  I cannot do it justice with just words on this blog, but just picture a precious young boy with his eyes full of tears and hope, fighting the best fight he can to keep his beloved class pet/best friend alive.)

7:24 a.m. Dr. Daniel took his two 6-year-old carrot-stick index fingers and rubbed them together and then, with every vocal chord in his tiny throat, screamed, “CLEARWWWWWWWWW!!!” AS HE ATTEMPTED TO SHOCK THE HAMSTER’S CHEST WITH HIS NON-ELECTRIC FINGERS!

A moment of silence.  There’s no response from Oscar.  If anything, the damn hamster now had two finger indentions in his tummy.

Daniel slammed his fist on the dryer and in the most sincere, heart-breaking whimper of a voice he said, “This…. this just.. it isn’t wight. This just isn’t faiw. HE DIDN’T DESEWVE TO DIE!”

It was the most emotionally heart-wrenching moment I’ve ever witnessed.  My heart hurt for my little brother, but I just couldn’t help myself.  The fact that Daniel honestly thought he could resurrect Oscar with mini CPR was too much to handle.

I began to giggle uncontrollably.

Eventually, through her tears, Laura began to follow my lead with little hiccups of giggles.  Daniel looked at us with angry eyes and in one final moment of desperation, yelled “CLEARWWWWW!” and pumped Oscar’s chest one final time.  At that moment we were officially on the floor, clutching our stomachs, sculpting our abs with I-CAN’T-BREATH laughter.

Mom finally entered the room with a look of horror.  She knew that what she had known was going to happen all along had finally happened: Oscar had seen his last 5k playmate.

Time of Death: 7:27 a.m.

Suthun Axcents My Dahlin’

Well I do de-clay-uh, what a mah-velous week I have been having.  Between missing two deadlines and finding out that Emma Stone is sporting a severely unfortunate hairstyle as Skeeter Phelan in The Help (see below,) it’s been a rough week. A week that can only be remedied with a nice detoxing vaca down 55 to Yahzoo City.

Everyone has that family member who they conveniently leave off the wedding invitation list.  Mine is an ex-aunt.  The aunt who shall not be named was only good at two things: drinking Budweiser and krimpin’ hair.  Emma Stone, you look like my aunt.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.  For some reason, my brain takes a sigh of relief as it enters that town known for marrying the hills and the Delta.  It’s at this time of the year that I completely and utterly love my hometown and I’m sure you’re asking yourselves, “BUT WHY SAVANNAH?!”  And the answer is simple: it’s a time machine.

That’s right, a time machine in that the minute you reach that region where the land appears to be stretching its arms and legs with cotton sleeves, you are immediately transported to a time that simply doesn’t exist anymore.. things are simple, time is slow, and you can breathe. Annnnnnd this time of the year is like Christmas in that there is delta snow every which a way!

But enough about my poetic rantings on the timeless merits of the South and the Mississipi Delta.  Let’s talk about something serious: ridiculous southern accents.

I don’t know about you guys, but I always love a good movie set in the South.  Not just because of “Oh, hey! I’ve thrown a rock in that abandoned building before!” but rather because I love actors portrayal of a “suthun axcent.”  It’s absolutely hysterical to me because not only are the actors “talkan’ like all we dare do all day is drank sweet tea and butta our biscuits,” but they also sweat, A LOT (for reference see Matthew McConaugHOT in A Time to Kill.)

Let’s eat, love and pray that The Help doesn’t exaggerate the accent too ridiculously, but here are some of my all-time favorite, god-awful southern accent ma-huvies of all time.

Like-Like

It feels like with every significant time period of your life, there are a series of questions that you are repeatedly asked over, and over, and over again and gainfully expected to answer.  For example, at this point in my life I have been asked three particular questions on the reg, specifically at family gatherings, holiday parties, church services, doctor offices…. oh hell, who am I kidding, these questions arise whenever you come into contact with any adult that you haven’t encountered on a daily basis since you came to college:

It begins with the ultimate conversation-starter of “Now tell me again, what’s your major?”

This question is then immediately followed by, “So (dramatic pause)…. what exactly do you plan on doing with that particular degree?”

I always proceed to answer these questions with the insanely conversation-stimulating statements of “Journalism” and “Oh…. (dramatic I-have-no-ambition-in-life-I-just-want-to-eat-pita-chips-and-hummus-all-day-and-watch-TV-seasons-can-that-be-my-career? pause)….. I don’t know, write?”

It’s after this rousing exchange of words that the conversation always manages to somehow mysteriously steer to the subject of my lack of a love life by the question of “Meet anyone special yet?”

If “special” means fictional then, YES HIS NAME IS TIM RIGGINS AND WE ARE IN LOVE AND CLEAR EYES, FULL HEARTS, CAN’T LOSE. (for those of you who are unfamiliar with Tim Riggins, I strongly suggest you reschedule whatever plans you have for this afternoon and rent Friday Night Lights season 3, disc 1, episode 2…. GO, NOW)

Of course I would have to be delusional/drunk to actually use that response, so I instead put on my chipper, I-will-find-love-damnit! face and simply say, “Not yet, but I’m on the lookout” and wink.

Wow, just read what I have written up to this point.  I’m dangerously straddling the line between “so sad, it’s funny” and “so sad, it’s sad.”  Oh well, I’m seeing this as my good samaritan act of the month as I am making anyone who reads this feel infinitely better about their life so let’s continue!

As you can guess, this conversation scenario recently went down at a Labor Day family function.  As I was preparing to pull out my oft-rehearsed, robotic response to the inevitable love life question, I had a flashback to elementary school.  It occurred to me that this “relationship” question is not new… it’s been asked since I could spell!  Of course back then it was phrased a little less eloquently and was often asked via note passing in chicken-scratch handwriting as “Do you like-like anyone?”

Oh good Lord, how could I possibly forget the era of “like-like!”  For those who aren’t familiar with the term, “like-like” meant that you were hopelessly devoted to some snot-nosed little bastard.

Of course reminiscing about this caused me to fondly recall the intense decision-making process behind choosing the first boy I was ever to like-like!

We were at recess and I was with my motley crew of Kate and Taylor, whom you should recall from Hastee Tastee Treat.  Kate has always been one smooth operator with the man folk so she was just like-likin’ all over the place.  Me and Taylor, on the other hand, weren’t really too concerned about who to devote our hearts too.  Taylor was just one cool cucumber who was too busy doing kart-wheels and scarfing down pickles to be concerned with cootie kings.  I on the other hand was just plain fearful of rejection (once again, most likely a product of having a haircut that gave off the impression that I had cut bangs entirely across the circumference of my head.)

Eventually the time came to determine who we like-liked.  We wanted to choose the perfect boy who possessed a great judgement of character, an aptitude for acting morally righteous, and of course, a cutie-patootie face.  We pow wowwed for weeks over possible contenders, for this was no laughing matter.  We wanted to impress everyone with our choice of boy.  We were looking for grade-A meat.

We finally made our decision and were ready to let the world know.  You would have thought Clinton was holding a press conference by the way we gathered our fellow 5k classmates on the playground to hear our announcement of whom we officially like-liked.

The playground fell silent in lieu of our announcement.  This was huge news, like Doug Funny confessing his love to Patti Mayonnaise huge.  We were ready to announce the identity of our newfound boyfriends.  You could slice the anticipation with a knife as we BOTH announced……………..

“My boyfriend is JESUS!”

Yup, we declared the son of God as our boyfriends.  Of course, I eventually fell in love with a non-religious-figure chubby bunny in 5th grade who stole my heart with a pack of fruit roll-ups, but if there ever is a Savannah Goodman wiki page, it would have to be written under Personal Life that I declared my first boyfriend to be Jesus.

(Keep in mind, this is circa 2nd grade so these like-like relationships were about as sincere and real as Spencer Pratt and FakeTits Magee’s relationship, but nonetheless it is where the love life questions saw their origin and it doesn’t look like their going away anytime soon!)

So, here’s looking to my late twenties and the inevitable question of “So you’re seriously still single?”

Shotgun Shells and “Holy Hells!”

The inspiration for this particular blog post stemmed from a phone call I received yesterday from my older brother, Bubba (yes, that’s his real name… could our family be any more Mississippian?) Anywho, he informed me that we’re having the annual family dove hunt this upcoming Labor Day weekend.  Now I know this news excites boys to the point of ruining their underpants, but us girls are, eh, well, not too psyched about aiming heavy sticks that make loud noises at poor defenseless birds.  Therefore, our conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Hello dear Braja.

Bubba: I have got the best news!

Me: Do tell!?

Bubba: OURDOVEHUNTISTHISWEEKENDSOGETFIREDUP!!

Me: Wow, you don’t know me at all…  why would I be excited about that?

Bubba: Gahhh, you’re so weird… But seriously, the dove hunt is gonna be fun and you can finally learn to shoot something besides yourself.

Me: Oh okay that soun….. WAIT.. WHAT DID YOU SAY?! WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSE TO MEAN?! I AM A HAPPY YOUNG WOMAN WITH DREAMS AND AMBITIONS!

Bubba: Gosh no, calm down, I’m talking about the time you almost blew your face off at GranGran’s when you were like 6 years old…

AND THE STORY BEGINS…FLASHBACK

The year was 1993.  My grandparents, like every God-fearing, cotton-farming family in the Delta owned enough ammunition and guns to supply a small army.  The Goodman family absolutely adored weaponry.  It’s as if our families all lived by the proverb TO EACH HIS OWN…….. GUN.

I’ll never forget my dad taking me to one of our fields and teaching me to shoot a gun.. Yep, that’s right, other kids got to go to the park and have their dads teach them how to ride a bike, but nope, not me, that would be too conventional and sane.  I learned to murder.  Okay, I’m being a tad dramatic, but still, WHY COULDN’T KENNY HAVE TAUGHT ME HOW TO RIDE A BIKE?!  Geez, I literally rode a tricycle until age 13 because in our family, being able to take a blow to the shoulder as you fired one off took precedence over mastering a bike with no training wheels.  But whatever, it is supplying ample blog material so I guess it all worked out.  Touche Kenny.

Anyway as the story goes, back in 1993 my parents dropped me off at my Goodman grandparents in Holly Bluff (population: people-43, tractors-75, guns-234) as they gallavanted off to Lord knows where.  I’m sure they were most likely headed to the hospital to have another baby or something.  So here I was, a curious little monkey, under little to no supervision.  I say I was under little to no supervision because there are 2 THINGS I AM ABSOLUTELY SURE OF IN THIS WORLD:

1) We serve an awesome and gracious God, because, I mean, just take a look at a November sunset in the Mississippi Delta.

AND

2) My GranGran will ALWAYS be napping from approximately 1:00 PM- 4:00 PM everyday with a newspaper spread across his face as my grandmother rants incoherently about Stefano denying Dawn and Bo the right to love one another on Days of Our Lives… Yup, my parents put me in the hands of these two for hours, days, weekends at a time!

So anywho, here I was, a mere 6 years old and I distinctly remember it was a Sunday morning because my grandmother had a televisied church service on.  The only reason I even vaguely recall this detail is because I thought to my 5 year old self, “Seriously, is LambChops not on? Can we not watch that?”

So as my grandfather engaged in his afternoon coma and my grandmother began ranting on her interpretation of the psyches and motives behind the characters of Days of Our Lives (the woman could write a thesis on the moral complexities of human behavior based on Stefano alone,) I began exploring every nook and cranny of their abode.  That’s when I almost literally killed myself.

First of all, my grandparents, as out of it they may be, are intelligent people.  They’ve traveled the world, filed their taxes, and raised six beautiful children among other things.  You can take my GranGran a leaf and he can tell you its scientific name and its geographic location. HE’S ONE SMART NUGGET.  Which is why I still to this day for the life of me can’t understand why they had a loaded SHOTGUN located in the corner of their living room with a 5 year old roaming around.

I mean, I get that many perceive southerners as simple folk who will defend their homes by blasting a trespasser the minute they step on their property.  But my grandparents are NOT those people.  Hell, my GranGran will most likely offer you a job on the farm to make a hardworking, honest man out of you before he’d shoot you for being thief.  So there is literally no explanation for the presence of the gun, I don’t even think it was a hunting season, it was literally just chillin’ in the corner, locked and loaded, ready to roll.

You can guess what happens next.  I hadn’t had the Kenny Goodman tutorial in firing a gun yet, so this beautiful, shiny pogo-stick looking object looked mysteriously mystical.  I swear I remember thinking, “Hmm… I wonder what this button does?” as I laid my finger on the trigger and pulled.

Captain, we’ve been hit! The gun went off and blasted through the ceiling creating a gaping hole, two possible heart attack victims, and a child robbed of innocence and instilled with a fear of all things gun.  I never was the same.

And after this absolutely traumatizing situation that literally almost killed me, my grandparents reacted as only MY grandparents would.

“Holy hell Beth, turn that TV down!” shrilled GranGran Goodman.

Battle of the Bowl

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Apparently, Heidi Klum read about my tragically embarrassing bowl cut and felt inspired!

Blog is blowin’ up bitches!

A Lesson on Travel Story Etiquette

A Lesson on Travel Story Etiquette

Well hey there, hi there, ho there! I know what you’re thinking “Say whaaaaat, Savannah is managing to write more than one blog post a month, HOLY LEBRON HEAT, IT’S A CHRISTMAS IN JULY MIRACLE!” But this post has a bit of importance… Urgency if you will. It regards something that I’m sure you’ve all been concerned about. Like the horrific oil spill in the Gulf, it’s been plaguing the consciences of Americans all over. It’s something that is affecting your day-to-day routine….your outlook on life….your ability to make sense of this crazy world we live in. I’m using this post to……………….(dramatic pause)…………….address my absence from my blog and Twitter. HA! Gotcha! But seriously…

Soooo, I’m in Scotland studying abroad blah dee blah blah dee blah and…. LET’S GET REAL FOLKS!… who really wants to hear about my absolutely amazing, life-changing experience in an exotic foreign country full of Gerard Butlers??? Yeah, that’s what I thought, NOBODY… But don’t worry, I completely understand. Seriously…. because to answer the Killers, we’re humans, not dancers, and not one human being truly enjoys hearing how “wonderfully exciting” another person’s travels are. Yeah, that’s right, I said it. I’m addressing this issue head-on in this post. Sure, it’s harsh and bitchy, but it’s the traveling truth and I have always felt this way about others who spew obnoxious, irrelevant stories about their travels and I know you have too.

My stance on the proper etiquette of a person who is filled to the brim with memories and photos from their travels, whether they be abroad or in the good ole U. S. of A., is three-fold. Let us begin.

1) Sure, I’ll be happy to look at your albums on Facebook, that’s a given. But just be forewarned that unless:

A) there is a hot local/foreigner

B) you are committing an act that is either awkward, embarrassing, or of drunken debauchery

OR

C) both A and B

I will most likely NOT take the time to look at your still-life photos of landmarks that I’ve seen in history books or on postcards. Sorry, I’m 21 and I have ADD.

To elaborate:

Images 1 and 2 – Yesssssssssssss, as one or the other includes alcohol, members of the opposite sex (bonus points for one being a South African male,) a fist pump by yours truly, and an incredibly awkward facial expression.

Image 3 on the other hand, HELL TO THE NO, I’D RATHER READ A RANDOM PRE-TEEN’S STATUS UPDATE ABOUT THEIR JR HIGH **~~LoVeCrUsH~~** DRAMA THAN LOOK AT THIS:

2) And yes, I’ll listen to your “absolutely-hilarious-but-I-guess-you-had-to-be-there” stories that contain anecdotes about complete strangers that I have never met and that you will most likely never see again simply out of sheer politeness, but let us not forget, Politeness is a street. And it’s a TWO-WAY street honey.. As I listen patiently and nod caringly and cough up a few courtesy giggles in response to your travel tales that contain lines like “I don’t EVEN remember touring the (insert famous landmark here) because I was SOOO blackout drunk on (insert regional/foreign draft beer here)!” you better be picking your favorite child of stories because you have a 3 day max time frame to get out all your giddy re-tellings of travel adventures. That’s it. 3 Days. I know it’s tough, but that is absolutely sufficient time to word vomit all of your travel tales aloud…So pick them wisely… And for the record, even though I may listen, I will never fully appreciate them BECAUSE I WASN’T THERE!!!

3) And finally, I swear to RYAN REYNOLDS’ ABS if you ever, and I mean ever, attempt to act like the country/region you visited affected and influenced your accent (ummmm you’re not losin’ that Southern axcent anytime soon) and/or fashion style (i.e. fedoras, shoes made of rice bags, dreads, long-stemmed cigarette holders, beanies, handkerchiefs, any article of clothing that incorporates the Jamaican flag) I will do America a favor and deport you myself..

Whew, feels good to get that out! And sweet Mary and Joseph please take a moment to marvel at Ryan’s fab abs… His tum tum is absolutely yum yum… Sigh, okay, back to business… Now that we’ve established the rules of travel story-telling, fear not loyal blog followers, for I respect and honor the story-etiquette code to a fault and you have nothing to worry about.

Those abs….. That body… sheesh… FOCUS SAVANNAH!

Now, of course, there have been numerous instances of Savawkward moments abroad, but I honestly just don’t think they’ll translate properly. I, therefore, will not be wasting your time with such stories unless there is a request, which judging by my MASSIVE audience participation, there shouldn’t be.

But like I said, if there are requests, it would be my honor to oblige, but until further notice, I will continue on with posts in the vein of Savawkwardness. God Bless Goobnation!

Flow

Geez Louise, why am I treating my blog the same way I treated my DigiPet in 3rd grade: NEGLECT, NEGLECT, NEGLECT! Poor DigiPet, damn thing was either starving or shitting himself. In case you don’t fondly recall the electronic companion, here’s an image to jog that memory of yours:

Anywho, let’s get to the matter that’s really at hand: I have been seriously lacking in my blogventure. Now I’m not one to point fingers, buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut I totally have to blame Scotland on this one. I’m surrounded by burly he-men in a landscape that cannot justifiably be described with only words… It requires a visuals like these:

I mean, come on people, that is B-E-A-UTIFUL! How am I expected to recant memories of awkward yore when I am surrounded by this! It’s absolutely impossible! But alas, I am thoroughly committed to this damn blog, regardless of the fact that it gets about as much action as Screech, so here we go, let’s reacquaint ourselves shall we?

In order to reconnect with my loyal followers (all 10 of you) I’ve decided to use this post to share my interests in life. Now I know what you’re thinking, “how flarking boring,” but work with me here. As I’ve been abroad, I have been thrown into a completely different culture where Ketchup doesn’t exist and a pint of beer is less expensive than a Diet Coke. It’s been a wee bit of an eye-opener into what I truly enjoy about life and that’s why I think I just can’t seem to want to leave. Scotland has been serving as my love drug, I can’t seem to get enough of what it provides me, hell, I even talked my parents into letting me stay an extra month (which solidified the fact that either A) I am the favorite child or B) they are attempting to re-compensate for a lost childhood…. either way, CHA CHING!) So here I am, figuring myself out, having a total “coming-of-age” moment, and I’m totally excitedly terrified. I’ve never truly known how I’ve felt about anything. I always just kind of go with the flow, but it’s been here in Scotland that I’ve decided it’s time I go with MY flow. But what exactly is my flow you may ask? Well let’s break it down by first discussing my interests.

It’s safe to go ahead and assume some of my interests (along with the rest of humanity) are traveling, cooking, exercising, friends and family. But let’s get to the for reals, for reals factors that make up what is essentially my “Savannahness.” Here is what I have determined to be the upmost important factors of “my flow” and, are therefore, my honest to Oprah true blue interests in life.

– top 20 countdowns.. i mucking love music countdowns, always have, always will… I remember sitting in front of the tube for hours watching VH1 and hoping Matchbox 20 would be dominating the charts (remember this little nugget of 90’s angst? I still get moody emo when I hear it while simultaneously experiencing feelings of anxiety as this was the go-to slow song at jr high dances.. holy hell I still don’t think I’ve ever experienced the nervousness I felt back then as I awaited Tye Langdon to take pity on me and ask me for a nice shoulder-width’s apart slow dance…..Sigh, oh Tye, you were my Zach Morris, my Lucas Scott, my Pacey Witter)

– Acting like I don’t enjoy TV marathons, when actually, nothing brings me more joy… A Mother’s Day marathon of Golden Girls? HELLS YEAH, I’m not moving for 12 hours

-Ugly children, especially Gingers… I swear my heart literally warms up when an incredibly unattractive child connects with me… he/she/it may bum everyone else out in the room with their incredibly unfortunate child acne and obesity, but I ABSOLUTELY GO GAGA

-Speaking of Gaga, I want to be her best friend, I don’t care how weird and uncomfortably sexual she is, I strive to have her unapologetic individuality

-hot nerds… Chuck, Seth Cohen, Chandler Bing, the Professor from Gilligan’s Island… all men after my own heart..

-I consider remaining silent in a movie theater the 11th Commandment…. “No, I do not have any idea why they just did what they did to that one guy and No, I don’t care that that actress used to be fat and NOOO, I DO NOT know why Leonardo DiCaprio is mysteriously upset!!!”

-Guys with great asses… no explanation.. I’m just an ass woman.. if you can fill a good pair of Levi’s, you can fill my heart with love

-Footie Pajamas… remind me of my childhood and reduce the risk of being raped while sleeping

I’m sure I have more and I will post them as they come to me.. Feel free to let your freak flag fly and share you’re own flow interests!

Hastee Tastee Treat

Hastee Tastee Treat

Gooooooooooooooodmoaning my long-suffering blog followers! I know you have been anxiously awaiting another awkwardlicious rant from yours truly. I’ve been absent for so long in hopes that you will be so ansy pants excited about a new post that you’ll be extremely grateful and therefore will appreciate any nonsense I write your way. Yes, I deprived you in order to lower your expectations, sue me, judge me, love me, read me. Let’s begin.

So at this point in my life, I’m starting to engage in the whole early-life crisis mumbo jumbo. I can’t make decisions, I feel inadequate in every way, I don’t know what the future holds blah blah blah… Ahh, it’s mind-numbingly annoying and depressing isn’t it? I mean, why can’t I just pull a Peter Pan and be a young-un’ forever?

Of course thinking about being young for all eternity got me to thinking about, you guessed it, MY CHILDHOOD. Although my beginnings were, shall we say, a wee bit more eccentric than others, I still enjoy little flashbacks to the simpler times in my life. It was a time when weed was used in the same sentence as bracelet (remember, weed bracelets? pick the tiny weeds and tie them together? no, just me and the other loner losers who played in the clovers did that? ok, well i’m sure we at least gave them to you as a gift to get into the cool crowd) and it was also a time of summer league baseball and softball..

Ah, softball… SO MANY MEMORIES. Not only did I wear cut-off jorts with my softball tee, but I wore my hair in a slicked-back pony. Yup, all I needed was a Budweiser and a few missing teeth and you couldn’t have picked me out of a trailer park lineup. I was rah rah rah RAHHHDNECK. But even the red neck awkward types manage to forge a few girlfriendships while engaging in the ultimate lesbian recreational activity known to man.

I loved every minute of summer softball. Twelve girls were literally forced to acknowledge me, it was fabulous! And I was on a team called the Glamour Girls (irony overload) and we would have our little games, which we thought were equally as important as Yankee games, and then our end of the summer tournament. Fortunately, I grew up in a competitive era where everyone was NOT winner. I could rant about how children today will ruin the future with their laziness and their belief that they are entitled to their electronic ecstasy devices like Wii’s and iTouches, but alas, I will spare you.

Anywho, we had our tournament and there were the winners and the losers. Of course, I was on the losing softball team (the K-Mart Blue Lights’ girls were A-rod athletes who possibly dabbled in steroids and beaver tranquilizers) but this did not mean anything to mwah because the real trophy to be won was the end-of-the-season pool/pizza party! CHYEAH!

Holy cheese and crackers I was a sad social sack of a child, but let’s continue.

So, there I was rocking what i’m sure was a gender-neutral bathing suit with jorts just a slippin and a slidin’ at the end of the summer league softball swim party. But one summer in particular though, there was an incident at said swim party. And you bet your bottom dollar was it awkward.

So as I mentioned before I was on the Glamour Girls sporting an ironically unglamorous appearance. My team had just had our recess-loving, CapriSun-guzzling butts handed to us by the Blue Lights (We may have lost the tournament but we most certainly won the creative team name contest, alliteration AND cuteness… Blue Lights? seriously, let me guess your team sponsor was Wal-Mart? Oh, my bad it was K-mart?… surprise surprise.) But anywho I had made friends with two Blue Lighters because the game meant nothing to me, it was all about social interaction!

Taylor and Kate were my two friends that I had made from the enemy team. Now I’m sure you’re asking yourself, why would I befriend two nemesis players at the risk of jeopardizing the friendships of my teammates? The answer my friends is DORKINESS. Taylor and Kate know I love them dearly and I’m still friends with both to this day, but good lawd did we have a talent for riding the pine (we weren’t very skilled in the athletic department) and cracking some awfully corny jokes. These gals weren’t just my summer gang, they were my summer soulmates.

So here we were, the three amigos in the summer of ’99 (okay now go back and read that previous sentence to the tune of Bryan Adam’s 80’s classic “Summer of ’69” it’s fun I swear) and it was the conclusion of the softball season and therefore we engaged in what we did best after the tournament…….. WE ATE. As much as obesity fascinates me, it’s rapid increase amongst youngsters today should not surprise me considering I could out-eat most grown men in my day. Kids-meal? Yeah, for an appetizer! Chicken McNugget meal all the way! And don’t you dare think about skimping me on the Sweet N’ Sour sauce or I will cut you. I LOVED FOOD. And luckily so did Kate and Tay.

It was this summer in 1999 when Kate, Taylor, and me ventured with Taylor’s parents to Hastee Tastee, a local burger joint in Yazoo City. How do I describe Hastee Tastee? Oh yeah, CHAR-BROILED HEAVEN! Burgers and cajun fries to dies fors. But what really made Hastee Tastee our edible ecstasy was the desert menu. We girls had worked up a mah-ha-highty appetite riding that pine all day in the harsh summer sun and we needed to regain our strength via 750 calorie hot fudge brownies. Seriously, it’s a wonder I’m not a raging diabetic.

I’m guessing you’re making your predictions about where this story is headed with the following equation: hot summer day+overheating chocolate and burger+pool party+ jorts= poop in the pants. Well, you’re on the right track, but one half the answer is entirely incorrect. Make your guesses. Now let’s continue!

Okay so Kate, Taylor and myself surprisingly found ourselves stuffed, there was simply no room amongst the CapriSun, fruit-roll ups, and burgers for an additional hot fudge brownie. But, we were children born and raised in Yazoo City where one simply does not ever, and I mean EVER, waste a damn thing. Leftover macaroni shells while cooking dinner? Happy Mother’s Day Steph, I’m making a macaroni jewelry box! Pulled too much toilet paper down in the bathroom? You re-roll like a champ. Sprinkled a little too much salt on your veggies? You risk high blood pressure. Like I said, we make use of errything. So what do three little jokesters do with 3 hot fudge brownies that simply cannot go to waste? WE PRANK YAZOO’S MOST BELOVED BURGER JOINT.

The plan was simple, execution was a smidge more complicated. We knew exactly what to do with the brownies because all humans ages 2-40 find one common subject inexplicably hilarious- POOP. We confiscated the brownies, hid them behind our backs, and then excused ourselves to the little girls’ room. Of course, Taylor’s parents found no suspicious behavior, girls always travel in packs to the restroom and they assumed we gorged the brownies because hey, we were growing girls with seemingly insatiable appetites.

So we made it to the bathroom unnoticed. Now, I wouldn’t say Kate, Tay and myself were particularly creative girls back in the day, but good lawd did we make a masterpiece of poop in that bathroom. It looked like Rosie O’Donnel had eaten her weight in Taco Bell after a 1:00 game of July tennis and had massive ass explosionz. It was off the chain sick. It was beautiful. We even got so carried away that we managed to make it look the the evacuation of defecation was a life or death struggle by placing brownie brown handprints along the walls and sink and little cow brownie patties along the floor. It was the atomic bomb of fake poops. We were legends, or so we thought. We admired our fartwork, took mental photographs of what was sure to propel us to star-making prankdom, and then we fled the scene. After all, we had a pool party to attend.

We returned to our booth and nonchalantly told Taylor’s parents that it was pool party time. Tay’s dad drove us the pool party which was taking place 30 minutes outside of town. We were giggle boxes the entire car ride, we were so insanely proud of our sense of humor. We eventually arrived and the festivities began. We were like soldiers returning home from war when we walked into that backyard. We demanded respect and admiration for our dangerous mission we accomplished abroad. Of course, we shared our experience with others and they giggled and said things like, “OHHh mah gah, y’all are so cra-azy!” and “Grosie josie but genius!” We were on top of the world and you better bet we celebrated with cannon balls and toothpick dives galore. That was until Tay’s dad returned with what a look on his face that can only be described as what Sandra Bullock’s face most likely looked like upon news of Jessie James’ infidelity- Complete disappointment and crushed emotions, but MAD AS HELL.

Tay’s dad ordered us to get our tushes out of the pool immediately and that we had some ‘splainin to do.

The car ride back wreaked of chlorine, crushed girlhood dreams, and defeat. We unwillingly trudged into the Hastee Tastee with our heads lowered in abject shame. No words were exchanged between us or the manager, he simply handed Tay about 6 rolls of paper towels, me a toilet brush, and Kate a fierce look of “get your ass in gear.”

We scrubbed. We repented. We cried. HARD. Mostly because we didn’t get to eat the pizza at the pool party, but also partly because the public was denied our masterpiece. But hey, there’s always a silver lining to every gray cloud, am I right? Because now the whole world can acknowledge our Hastee Tastee poopsterpiece through da blog! … YOU’RE WELOME WORLD!

and yes, we three still eat at Hastee Tastee……. but we stay the hell away from the dessert menu