Year: 2007

I know some of y’all are probably tired of the basketball talk, and I don’t blame you. However, I have had a week where I’ve been accused of being pregnant and having facial hair. I can talk about whatever I want.

The big news in college basketball for the past week or so, has revolved around coaching positions opening up at two big time basketball schools; the University of Kentucky and the University of Arkansas. This has caused no small amount of stress within the Aggie nation, because rumors were flying that our coach, Billy Gillispie, was being considered for these positions.

I know that many of y’all don’t understand this, but Billy Gillispie has brought Aggie basketball back from the dead. It died a sad, slow, painful death over the last twenty years or so. Granted, Texas A&M is first and foremost, a football school, but in case y’all haven’t noticed, our football program has been struggling. The basketball team has served as a shining, beacon of hope for what our new athletic director can do with great heaps of alumni donated funds.

So, Gulley and I have been obsessed with the possible departure of Billy Gillispie. We have followed the news on the Aggie message boards, scoured the various sports pages for any indication of whether he would stay or go, and had numerous phone conversations talking about why we think he’ll stay in Aggieland. We’ve researched him to the point of finding out that, due to the fact he is a workaholic bachelor, his refrigerator is never stocked and he starts his day by buying peanut butter crackers and a Dr. Pepper at a convenience store.

It was that nugget of information that let us know he’s our kind of guy.

Gulley and I lived on the convenience store diet throughout college. We would stop at 7-11 on the way to class in the morning and start our day with a Big Gulp. Dr. Pepper for her. Real Coke for me. Most days we would each buy a package of powdered donuts to go with our 72 oz. beverage.

After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

We’d head to our Intercultural Communication class and daintily sip our carbonated drinks and eat our powdered donuts while we listened to Professor Gonzales lecture about you know, culture and communication. Obviously, all that sugar and caffeine was causing my brain to short circuit, because I actually made a 13 on a test in that class.

A 13.

I’ll never forget that he was about to pass out the graded tests and gave some lecture about how most people did pretty well, but there was one person who made a 13. Gulley laughed and wrote a note on my paper that said, “Maybe it was you. Ha. Ha.”

It was me.

Ha. Ha.

And after I got that test back, I gathered up my donuts and industrial size beverage and headed to my academic advisor’s office to let her know I was dropping the class. I mean, let’s be honest, you can’t recover from a 13.

Anyway, after a hard morning of academic achievement, we would drive back to our apartment and then go back to 7-11 with our roommates to get another Big Gulp. Everyone needs a little afternoon pick me up and what says pick me up better than 144 oz. of caffeine and sugar?

As we talked about our Big Gulp consumption, I had a few thoughts.

1. Did I drink even a sip of water throughout my college career?

2. Why could I not figure out that maybe part of what was contributing to my ever increasing weight was the fact that I was easily consuming 2000 calories a day in beverage alone?

And that’s not counting the Zima.

3. Do college students still drink Big Gulps or have they become extinct with the advent of the Grande Mocha Latte with extra whip?

4. It’s interesting that these days, unless I’m on a road trip, it would never even occur to me to drive to a convenience store for the sole purpose of purchasing something to drink. Sonic, yes. QuikMart, no.

I realize I have rambled enough about this entire subject, but during our Big Gulp conversation, Gulley brought up a memory that I had long forgotten.

Big shock there.

During my first senior year in college and Gulley’s junior year, we lived in a duplex right around the corner from a Quikmart. Needless to say, we were frequent customers making around 4-5 visits a day. It was our standard stop. We even knew all the cashiers.

One night, Gulley’s mama called and asked her, “Do you know somebody named Al?”

Gulley thought about it and said, “No, I don’t think so.”

Her mama said, “Well someone named Al called here looking for you and said he knows you from the Quikmart.”

It was then that we realized that Al was one of the cashiers at our favorite stop. It seems he had gotten Gulley’s phone number off of one of her checks and wanted to ask her out. And no, Al wasn’t exactly date material for a variety of reasons, but first and foremost because he was about 35 which, of course, is ancient. Fortunately, the number on her check was her parent’s home phone number, not ours.

As were laughing about this story this week, I made the comment that, looking back, it’s kind of scary that Al got her phone number off her check.

And Gulley said, “I’m not sure what’s scarier, that he got my number off my check or that I wrote a check for 94 cents to pay for a Big Gulp.”

Hope y’all have a lovely weekend.

I have always been a huge fan of painted toenails. It is my personal belief that if you are a woman, there is no good reason why your toes shouldn’t be used to accessorize an outfit if you’re wearing open toe shoes.

If God had intended for toenails to be bare, He wouldn’t have invented nail polish or the strappy sandal.

I won’t even get into my feelings about men’s feet because it will only serve to confirm that I have some serious quirks. But let me just say, nothing will cause me to lose my appetite faster than seeing a man, with unkempt feet showcased in sandals, walking into a restaurant. I don’t like to see bare male toes, unless they belong to someone I love, and even then, I can’t look too closely.

Due to all these issues, I spend a great deal of time trying to avoid looking at the ground during the spring and summer months. I am too afraid of seeing hairy, exposed men toes.

And I’m sure all of your husbands and loved ones have perfectly nice feet. I just don’t want to see them, which is why I don’t look down. It’s my issue. I own it.

So, while obviously I am not qualified to work as a pedicure technician at a salon, I am a huge fan of the pedicure. I realize there is huge irony to be found in my total willingness to let someone else work on my feet, when I can barely look at other people’s feet.

But my thought is, if you’ve made the choice to be a pedicure technician, then you knew what the job entailed when you signed on. It’s not like you’ve been blindsided by the job requirements, like I was during my first job at Sound Castle Music when I was informed that in addition to selling cassette tapes, I was also expected to vacuum the store every night.

Talk about high pressure.

Anyway, the other day I decided to treat myself to both a pedicure and a manicure. I don’t always get manicures because I have nails that are the consistency of tissue paper, so there isn’t much point. I keep my fingernails short and unpainted, because as strongly as I feel about painted toenails, for me personally, I believe just as strongly in unpainted fingernails. My nails are short and unappealing, there is no need to highlight their shortcomings with a color called Cancun Fiesta.

There is no fiesta happening at the ends of my fingers. Just short, weak sadness.

Anyway, the lady gave me my pedicure first, and then we moved over to her manicure table, where she started my manicure by telling me to soak my sad, little nubs of nail in warm, soapy water. As she started to apply cuticle cream, she stopped, looked at me and asked, “Would you like me to wax your mustache while you’re here?”

I don’t know lady, would you like me to flush your tip down the toilet?

You can’t tell me she doesn’t have some anger issues due to working on people’s feet all day.