Happy Birthday Eminem! Oh, and Me Too I Guess

Remember when we all asked for the Real Slim Shady to please stand up? We were teeny boppers and Eminem was the coolest CD in our walkmans. Well, I'm no longer (as) tiny and Eminem is no longer that awkwardly cool white kid who's talking really fast instead of singing.

I like to believe that I can muster a stare of equal intensity.
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Much to my disbelief, Eminem turned THIRTY NINE FLIPPING YEARS OLD TODAY. What the what? Is our beloved Slim Shady really that close to the big 4-0? Not that it matters. He's still rockin' it as hard as he did in the '90s; I must admit that I've listened to "Lighters" an obscene number of times in the past few months (including at this very moment).

Eminem AND Bruno Mars. That's gangsta bliss.

I like to think that sharing a birthday with Eminem gives me... I don't know, a thousand gangster** points? I might not be from the wrong side of town, but that that doesn't leave me completely devoid of hoodrat qualities (although that last sentence might have done it). Okay, I'm sort of totally a country girl, but I would still hang out with Eminem and lay down phat beats and engage in other wild and crazy hoodrat shenanigans.

Now don't tell me that I'm sipping on the haterade, because I actually think that Eminem's sweet. He started rapping at the age of 14 (I'm pretty sure I was just discovering MTV and thinking that Room Raiders was super-scandalous at that age) and dropped out of high school when he was 17. Okay, I don't condone the education-fail, but he sure was progressive with his career.  He raps like an utter champ and has a beat-your-ass-but-perhaps-in-a-friendly-manner persona. I mean, doesn't he just lose some of the scary when he's wearing glasses?

Bespectacled gangsta. Charming?
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Well, that's my homage to rap star with whom I share that special October 17th hoodrat bond. And here's a classic video to end on.

**Sometimes I just can't help but use correct spellings. Judge me.
***Also, all the info in here came from Wikipedia. Call it research.

Why I read the newspaper police logs

Everyone thinks I'm crazy. When I tell people that I check my hometown newspaper's criminal reports like...daily, they generally stare at me all googly eyed and ask why I'm so paranoid.

Well, it's because every once in a while, I find people who I went to middle and/or high school with in those police reports. How else am I supposed to find out who has been arrested if I don't stay on top of my game?

Here's a short list of crimes that I've found my peers to have committed, thanks to public police logs:

• Theft/burglary/larceny
• All sorts of drug possession (and related offenses)
• DUI/DWI
• Assault/battery/strangulation
• Violation of restraining orders

I come from a middle class, rural, hole in the wall town. When did I became associated with real live hooligans? Granted, the DUI/DWI-ers aren't what I would call terrifying, but the neighbor that was arrested for strangulation and aggravated assault? I don't understand. I just don't.

I've seen more crime than I ever would have expected come out of my little neck of the woods, and I'm not totally sure when it started to involve people that I actually know. I must say that I'm an adamant supporter of public records and even though I get the heebie jeebies every time I see a familiar name in the police reports, I'm glad that I know who and where the real creeps are.

To all the hoodlums who think I'm just too goodygoody and mainstream: stealing/shoplifting doesn't make you cool. Driving when you're hammered doesn't make you cool. Distributing illicit substances doesn't make you cool. If you want to be "different," go dye your hair or, I don't know, make a friend or something. If you break the law, you deserve to be in the paper for it. And I'll know. Because I always check.

Stay off of my lawn, you thugs.

So.Much.Class.

In my parent's excitement that their little girl is no longer in the house and that they can re-decorate to their hearts' content, they got rid of my bed frame last year. This means that for the last two years, my bed has been sitting atop two sheets of plywood and a frame that is ON WHEELS. Yes, this means that if I sit with my back against the wall for too long, I actually roll across my room.

Pretty sure these are supposed to be for moving.

To be fair, my bed doesn't totally suck. It's a Sleep Number, which kind of rocks, but it would be fabulous if my bed didn't look like it belonged in the projects. So why do I bring this up? Because my father just walked into my bedroom with a BEDFRAME. Okay, so it's left over from my grandparents' house, but it's made of real wood and it will keep my mattress from roving all over my room. Cool. Oh, but my mattress will still sit on two slabs of plywood because we don't have an extra boxspring I'm too fancy for boxsprings and shit.

Yeah, I am.

Also, the head and foot boards have some pineapple motif on them. So I'm pretty much in the tropics (Disclaimer: this motif could also be pinecones, but I'm not entirely sure).

The point is, my bed is all classy and shit and I'm super excited about it.

Also, this bed is really sweet. 

Wal*Mart: It's always a show

It really gives the world a certain sparkle.

Wal*Mart: A Play in Two Acts

Disclaimer: This is a real account of the 20 or so minutes that I spent in a check out line this afternoon. I almost changed to a faster moving register, but I stayed where I was because once the show started, I couldn't stop watching. The dialog below is written exactly as it was spoken because honestly, the original is too good to edit. In short, a cashier needed something to be checked by a manager in order to finish a woman's transaction. The manager took his sweet time to get the message and come on over. The two women in line in front of me are having absolutely none of this and decided to make a massive scene. In Act Two, I discuss Act One with the equally amused cashier. In the following dialog, capital letters indicate yelling.

Location: Wal*Mart - checkout line

Time: 3pm

Cast of Characters:
Me
Cashier
Manager
Woman 1 (40something, overweight, wearing sweatpants, very unwashed hair that's pulled back in a scrunchie)
Woman 2 (also 40something, overweight, wearing leggings with footie handles, poorly striped dyed hair, smells like Dial soap and sweat)

Act one

Woman 1: WE NEED A MANAGAH OR SOMETHIN' OVER HERE. LET'S GO LET'S GO.
Woman 2: LIIIIITLE FASTER PLEASE. I GOT THINGS TO DO. I gotta clean the house and make dinner. I DON'T GOT ALL DAY HERE.
Woman 1: MY DEPENDS CAN ONLY HOLD SO MUCH. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Woman 2: THAT'S IT! HERE WE GO. FINALLY. (To cashier). See, that's all you need. You gotta yell to LET YOUR VOICE BE HEARD. HAHAHAAA
**Both women clap hands for the approaching manager

Manager sorts out the problem in a few seconds and the poor woman who was waiting the assistance clutches her bags, covers her face (which is the color of a tomato at this point) and practically sprints out of the store. Women 1 and 2 complete their transactions (making crude comments and laughing at one another all the while) and saunter out of the store as if other patrons weren't staring at them, gaping

Act two

Cashier: Sorry about the wait.
Me: No problem. That was...entertaining, at least.
Cashier: Yeah... Well, that's Wal*Mart for you.
Me: Tell me about it. Welcome home, right?
Cashier: Are you from around here?
Me: Yeah, this town. But college is in Boston, so coming back is always interesting
**Look of understanding is shared
Cashier: Got it. I can imagine...

Tattoo for my bicep?

I hope this guy gets a raise. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he won't be able to stay behind that register for the rest of his life. He might just go crazy. But he will leave. I could just tell.

On another note, I wish that I had crazy memory and stenographic skills. That way, I could remember and record every ludicrous conversation that I overhear. I think that stenographic memory would trump photographic memory any day.

Rather unfortunately true.