Feb 1

Wii Fit has a death wish.

I was doing some reading for class when my boyfriend’s roommate’s girlfriend, Turbo (who gained this nickname from an introductory pole and strip tease class we took at Pole Dance Charlotte), asked if I wanted to play Wii Fit with her. In my mind I was all, wii fit, like, the exercise one? but of course I eagerly responded, oooookay? (Btdubs, my spellcheck just completely schooled me on the difference between “exercise”, and “exorcise”.  Sooooo, synonyms?)

The first game I played was basic hula-hoop which I failed about halfway through. This might not be too terrible, had it not been freaking hula-hoop and had I not trained in ballet almost every day from the age of 3 through 19. You think somewhere in there I might have gained enough skill to move my hips in “wide even circles” for a minute straight. Sadly, no. Ballet is not rhythmic gymnastics.  Or, as a soon found out, preparation for any kind of balance test.

this is me. minus 37 spins and the two extra hoops.

Next I played a strange zen balance game with a candle, in which I sat cross legged on the balance board and tried to quiet the flame by being perfectly still. This I failed about 40 seconds in.

I tried basic step aerobics and passed with a 1 calorie star and then basic run, where I finally achieved the 2 star “calorie roaster” rating.

Okay, so as I’m typing this out I realize that I sound extremely pathetic. Which I’m not debating. I wasn’t taking the workouts that seriously at the time. I’m not really competitive by nature, and I was approaching each game as a happy diversion to the shitpile of schoolwork waiting in the other room. But as each game ended with another mediocre or worse performance by yours truly, I kept thinking back to one of those regrettable conversations I had with my boyfriend in which he noticed, casually, and for the sake of complete and total honesty with one another, that I may be just a little, ahem, bigger than I was, um, when we first started dating. And since we haven’t even been dating for an entire year yet, I started thinking that maybe I should put some extra hustle into each workout, and maybe, probably, turn the wii fit on more often, like, idk, every single day for the rest of my life?!

Then Turbo was all, hey do you want to create a profile so you can earn fitness credits, and I was all, of course, um, yea, totally, I should really start keeping track of this. And that’s when Wii fit turned into a little bitch.

Wii fit:  Hey let’s test your posture!

Me: Okay, like this?

Wii fit: Woa bitch, you lean to left. Stop doing that.

Meck: Okay okay.  Don’t take it personally.

Wii Fit: Now enter your height

Meck: 5′9″

Wii Fit: Your BMI is 20, that’s normal.

Meck: Hey, you’re not so bad.

Wii Fit: A healthy weight for you is 148.

Meck: That’s more than I weigh now! take that noticing boyfriend.

Wii Fit: Now do this balance test

Meck: Woa, what’s happening. This test is weird and hard.

Wii Fit: You were a dancer! You should be able to balance!

Meck: I don’t know which way to lean!

Wii Fit: FAILED!

Meck: but…

Wii Fit: Your wii fit age is…calculating…

Meck’s Mii: *clutching stomach* ooooo i don’t want to knowwwww

Wii fit: 41!

Meck: WTF?!

Meck’s Mii: ow, my back hurts

Turbo, of course, thought this was hilarious. Her Wii fit age was 28. As soon as our boyfriends returned we made each of them set up a profile. Her boyfriend’s Wii fit age was 29. My boyfriend’s was 37. I am the oldest Wii fit person in the household.This fact probably wouldn’t be so depressing if I wasn’t twenty-some days away from my 25th birthday.

So I’ve resigned myself to a goal of getting my Wii fit age to match my real age by my birthday. Even if that means practicing my balance every f’ing day. Which will probably be pretty tough for me since, as Wii fit so kindly pointed out, balancing, uh, is not my forte.

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Jan 29

Quibbles and bits

This post is going to start on a happy note and move straight into a grrrr one.

Happiness: Wednesday night, my boyfriend and I went to Bonterra for Charlotte Restaurant Week. Oh. Mmm. Gee. Freaking Delicious. A truly impressive meal, which I don’t say very often, especially during Queen’s Feast. I had the soup du jour(ginger carrot I believe), and the bistro filet. I ordered the filet medium rare, and another rarity for me, it actually came out medium rare. Like real, deliciously juicy, warm but not overdone, medium rare.  My BF’s salmon was also perfectly cooked. We finished the meal with the molton chocolate cake and sweet potato pecan pie. Both were sweet and satisfying, but I definitely felt a little buyer’s remorse when I saw the creme brulee delivered to the next table over.  Unlike the over stylized modern restaurants uptown, Bonterra’s interior (in an old church) is classic, simple, and charming. Go there. Now.  Before I drink all their wine.

Angriness: Thursday morning I was driving to class listening to Brotha Fred’s am mayhem. On the phone was Observer blogger Allison Henry, responding to criticism over a thoughtful and honest blog post (found here), about finding a guy who satisfies your “requirements”.  As they were so nicely giving Allison a venue to defend herself, the morning show cast had themselves muted so she couldn’t hear them, and they were making fun of her. Bro Fro continually called her “crazy”, saying “you can hear it in her voice.” Seriously? Brotha Fred and gang are welcome to their own opinions about Allison’s post (even if those opinions are based on a misunderstanding of sarcasm and not reading the entire piece) but I was really put off by them talking over her. I don’t buy the idea that all press is good press. Blogger’s beware: even if Brotha Fred is repping your site, it’s probably only so he can reinforce his ridiculous personal brand. There’s no telling how low Bro Fro will go. So in the spirit of Allison, I’m adding “self important guy’s who are pushing thirty but act twenty” to my list of dealbreakers. Plz.

Now I’m all worked up into cut a bitch mode again. Maybe I’ll grab some scissors and go after BFred’s ridiculous hair.

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Jan 25

Linguistics: or how I learnt/ed to start worrying and hate grad school

I should preface this by saying that this next paragraph is going to sound really snooty. But, I wasn’t really expecting grad school to be hard. Ok, hard maybe. But not haaaaaaard, like the omfg what have I done, I’m seriously paying for this abuse, kind of hard. You see, up until my world started to fall apart in 2007 (a story for a different day) I was a near perfect student. My GPA was 3.98. I got a C in college algebra my first semester in school. Every grade after that was an A.  My junior year I was the Dean’s pick to represent social sciences in the Phi Kappa Phi honor society.  I won the alumni association senior merit scholarship.  Before life got messy, I was pretty damn good.

Of course, a lot happened between then and now.  I saw just how low that GPA could go. But even as I was struggling, I always felt like one of the smartest students in the class. I always felt like I truly understood the readings. And while I knew deep down that my success was largely due to hard work not natural intelligence, after years of affirmations from professors and friends, I came to believe that I belonged in academia.

No longer.  Two weeks ago I started what will likely be the longest two years (oh, who I am kidding? Two and HALF years) of my life. And it is remarkably different than undergrad.  Notably absent are quizzes and other small and easily accomplished tasks than can improve a grade. Most scales seem to be made up of:

-Research paper: 40%

-Other time-consuming project: 30%

-Exam/presentation/additional paper/other form of torture: 30%

There is no room for redemption. I can’t mess up project one or paper two without messing up my entire semester. That is scary. It’s not that this set-up is entirely unexpected. What’s unexpected is that I have only a few chances to prove that I know what I’m doing and I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT I’M DOING.

I feel comfortable and at home in fiction writing, but in literature and linguistics I feel like I’m drowning. Even when I do understand what’s happening, I don’t have the proper vocabulary to express it in class. I am now very aware of the disadvantage of my not english undergraduate degree, and I hate that I thought for a second that the transition would be easy, and even promised the program director in my interview that it would be no problem. Because it is a problem.

On the first day of linguistics the director (who is also teaching the class) said he very rarely has to pull aside a student and tell her that she sucks. As he was explaining this I had one of my premonitions in which I saw myself, sitting uncomfortably in his office, in the same chair I sat during my interview, promising to work harder, and apologizing for not living up to the potential I swore I had three months again. No. no. I thought. You’re just psyching yourself out. I shrugged it off until I opened my book later that week to discover sentence diagrams, and suddenly I was back in the chair. On the second day of class, my brain tripped over the word “sibilants” so many times I skinned my knee.

Heading into week three I am still thinking about my vision as I chug along at homework that’s due at 8am.  It’s hanging over my head like an inevitable conclusion and I wonder if I’m not setting myself up for a self fulfilling prophesy. Do not skip over S–>NP+VP like it’s a math problem you don’t understand. Read it. You have to reaaaad it. Make sense of what it says, dammit. An when it’s not the chair, it’s graduation, two years from now, something that makes me feel even sicker. Because the only thing that follows success in this pursuit is a PhD program, and four more years of linguistics.

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Jan 2

In 2009

In January I moved uptown. I met a boy who led me on for three months and a boy I would fall in love with. I watched as the first layoffs left the law firm.

In February I got a $1000 tax refund. I spent Valentine’s Day with The Musician, my 24th birthday with friends, and danced with my crush at a club. At work I got a near perfect performance review.

In March I mourned the anniversary of a friend’s suicide, introduced Texas Lexi to Charlotte, and met Crystal Dempsey (who has been perhaps the biggest promoter of my writing and a true blessing to know).

In April I ditched The Musician, celebrated surviving the year after ending my engagement, and learned that I was considered in the law firm’s latest round of layoffs.

In May I went to the BoB awards,  started dating my crush and current boyfriend, adopted Rasputin, lost my second job, and quit blogging after a prominent partner at my law firm followed me on twitter (now you know the true story).

In June I drank gin drinks and hung out at the pool, grew increasingly stressed and dissatisfied at work, attempted to play tennis, and went to a Summer’s Eve party.

In July I traveled to Brazil and Atlanta, reunited with some old friends, and lost my best friend to Boone.  My health hit a low point and I took some time off of work.

In August I went home to Pittsburgh, rode the coasters at Kennywood and visited my sister in Houston for the first time. Also for the first time, I realized that my life uptown had an expiration date.

In September I finally started to feel like myself again. I spent Labor Day weekend with my best friends from college and planned my comeback.  I applied to grad school.

In October I brought back KUWTB, got the flu, stopped by barcamp, and waited.  I was encourage to apply for a promotion at work and was rejected via automated email.

In November I learned I was accepted to grad school, coined the term “Disco Chicken”, lunched with two Observerites, and spent my first Thanksgiving in Charlotte.

In December I finished something I started a long time ago, but because of that I missed out on a great opportunity. I lost my law firm job, moved out of uptown, and for the first time in many months, felt like I was where I was supposed to be.

I feel fortunate for all the losses of 2009. This year I’m only unpacking the boxes worth keeping.

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Dec 25

Merry Christmas from KUWTB

SQUAK

SQUAK

Now I’m not usually one for rumor spreading, and I can neither confirm nor deny that this actually happened, but one little birdie told another little birdie who tweeted in my ear that a certain memo went out around the City of Charlotte specifying that the glittering sculpture decorating Tryon street outside of the Bechtler should only be referred to by it’s official title “the Firebird” and not by any other nicknames, like, idk, DISCO CHICKEN. What more could a blogger ask for?

Here’s wishing you and yours a very happy holiday from all of us at Keeping Up with the Belks! And all of us equals Me(ck), and sometimes Rasputin, when he’s ghostwriting for me. I hope you get everything you want.

(and yes, that IS a disco chicken made from hershey kiss foils. you’re welcome.)

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Dec 24

Merry Christmas to Meck!

So I know I haven’t blogged in like 20 days (i know, i know) but things have been happening (more on that later). But I just had to pop in to say I will be blogging a lot more from now on because:

#1 i’m unemployed

#2 i’m a full time student again

#3 i got a new laptop, i got a new laptop, i got a new laptop

Shortly after I wrote that hateful/hated post about Macs my little G Lappy did the most annoying spiteful thing it could possibly do. It died. Ooooof course.

So for the past few months I have had no laptop and it has been painful. It is so not fun having to sit up at a desk like, idk, an adult and type. Who wants to do that? I prefer to write sitting on a sofa, legs stretched out in front of me, tv on in the background, 9283 google chrome tabs open, drinking either  beer, wine, or coke depending on the time of day.  Notice how that list didn’t include anything healthy? I’m awesome.

Luckily for me I have the world’s best boyfriend and he has the world’s best friend and he has the world’s best Best Buy discount. And now I am the proud owner of a red Dell Studio lappy with like 90 GB RAM and windows 7 and like a gillion GHz processor made by Jesus. And also, i’m overly excited about this, a webcam! Which I used to take this awesome picture of Rasputin:

not cooperating with mommy

not cooperating with mommy

But maybe the best part of getting the new laptop, which i’ve decided to name lappy 2.0,  was the following direct quotes from my boyfriend after I opened it:

“Your laptop is better than mine”

and

“This kind of makes me want to stop buying Macs”

It’s a Christmas miracle!

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Dec 1

Grammo/Typo nitpicking will not be tolerated

In light of recent comments asking me to please understand the difference between “where” and “wear”, I’ve decided to remind readers that KUWTB has a very strict policy against grammo/typo nitpicking in comments.  Meaning, if you feel the need to point out obvious accidental errors then you will either be mocked for not having anything better to do with your time or else your comments will be deleted.  Why? Because I can, that’s why.

I am going to make mistakes. And seriously? Most people, including lil ol’ me, understand the difference between it’s/its where/wear your/you’re there/their/they’re. Sometimes the hands are a typin’ faster than the brain is a processin’, ya see?

Let me spell out the difference for you: in my last, aptly titled, post “Mistakes”, I spelled discreet wrong twice. I spelled it “discrete” and spell check did not challenge my assumption.  I’ll admit, I thought I used it correctly. It took a friend’s comment using the right form for me to realize my mistake.  I blushed at my error and made the necessary changes.  I also happened to use “where” once when I meant to use “wear”.  Listen, I’m not 12.  I know the difference.  And if I had noticed it before I clicked publish, it wouldn’t have happened.  But it did, so, you know, get over it.  Commenting for the sole purpose of pointing out a grammar mistake or a typo is not contributing to the conversation.  The only thing it tells me is that you want to score a point for yourself. So, um, go you.  If that’s all you’ve got going for you, then the internet is your oyster.  But this website is not.

This is my blog. I’m the only person who is working here, and I’m working for free.  If you want to be my editor, then please remember to include my paycheck.

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Nov 30

Mistakes

Do you ever have those moments right when you are about to make a mistake, crystal clear visions in which you see how what you are about to do will backfire, but then you do it anyway?  I have those moments all.the.time.  And you’d think I’d learn my lesson. But nope. I just keep on keepin on, making mistakes and never learning any lessons, except perhaps that I will never learn.

It happens most often with the alarm clock.  I hear the distant buzzing growing louder and louder, forcing me awake, and as I stumble out of the bed and my fingers reach for the snooze it happens, I see myself two hours later waking up to the clock blaring and the time well past when I was supposed to be at work (and yes, I DO actually get up out of bed, hit snooze, then return and go back to sleep. I know, I know).  But you know what, I always end up hitting snooze anyway and sure enough, I don’t hear the alarm clock when it rings again ten minutes later and I end up late.

Then there was the trash bag incident.  One evening in a random fit of cleaning I emptied out some old food from my fridge into a trash bag, which I tied up in my kitchen to take out when my boyfriend arrived. He came over and instead of taking the bag straight to the trash shoot not 100 feet down the hall, we decided to run to the convenience store down the street first.  As we were heading out the door I spotted the bag out of the corner of my eye and thought: Rasputin. But the entire trip would take less than ten minutes, I rationalized, and he had already eaten that day.  He wouldn’t, I promised myself.

But, oh, he would.  The initial carnage wasn’t that bad to pick up, as it appeared he only wanted to eat a stick of expired butter and a raw egg.  So like I was saying, the first cleanup wasn’t terrible, just a couple napkins, a butter wrapper and an eggshell. But what followed was. epic.  I’ll spare you the unpleasant details, but let’s just say that it didn’t take long for Rasputin’s little snack to turn into my big mistake. My big, stinky, disgusting, barely digested mistake. Damn me.

And finally, this last one will surely make you smile. Or least give you a better understanding of the tragi-comedy that is my life. Thanksgiving day, 2009. My first Thanksgiving spent in Charlotte and the first holiday I was spending with my boyfriend and his family.  No pressure.  Getting dressed that morning I sought my comfiest, roomiest pair of jeans for a day of eating at the casual celebration. As I was zipping them up, my thumb ran across some exposed metal on the button and FLASH, there it was, a vision of my button, which had been loosening for months, popping off at THE most inopportune and embarrassing time.

You can probably guess what happened next.  I opted to where the jeans which really are were the comfiest, roomiest pair I had, promising myself that there is no way that after years of ownership and months of precariousness that today would be the day the button decided to give up.  There was.no.way.

Fast forward past a delicious breakfast, 5 or so cups of hot apple cider, spinach dip, cheese balls, and a delicious Thanksgiving spread.  My pants were still loose and soft.  I excused myself to bathroom, and no sooner had I touched the button did it fall off into my hand.  Of. course.  I couldn’t help but laugh a little which, coming from the inside of the bathroom, probably sounded bat-shit crazy.  But it was just too funny. We had just finished dinner.  And since my pants weren’t exactly tight, I couldn’t rely on turkey belly to hold them up. I would have to ask for a safety pin.

Ladies, have you ever had to have a discreet conversation with your boyfriend, or rather, have you ever tried to have a discreet conversation with your boyfriend that ended up being a non-discreet conversation because he told everyone what was going on?  That’s exactly what happened next.

Meck: Baby

BF: Hold on

Meck: Ba-by. Please.

BF: What?

Meck: I need a safety pin.

BF: Why?

Meck: Because the button fell off my jeans.

BF:  You lost your button? hehehe. Oooh poor baby. hehehehe.

Meck: Ba-by.

BF: Ok, mom do you have a safety pin?  Meck needs one.  She lost her button.

BF’s Dad: what’s going on?

BF: Meck lost her button.

BF’s Dad: Hey, Meck, eat too much at dinner huh?

Meck, holding up pants: *sigh*

I think I’m ready to make my first new year’s resolutions for 2010.  #1 listen to my instincts. #2 invest in new jeans.

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Nov 19

Stay tuned for an important message from our sponsors

Word has gotten back to me that people think I quit blogging today because of my “Keeping Up with the Belks: Final Exam” post.   So I just want you to know that I didn’t quit. You’re still stuck with me.  Probably forever. Yay.

The last line, “RIP Keeping Up with the Belk’s column.  For now…” refers to the series of Keeping Up with the Belks Lessons I did in response to Bill Belk’s judicial shenanigans.  You can read them below.  Today’s post was the last of that series. That is, until the crazy bastard does something else, idk, crazy.

K? Glad we cleared that up.

We will now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Keeping Up with the Belks: lesson 1

Keeping Up with the Belks: lesson 2

Keeping Up with the Belks: lesson 3

Keeping Up with the Belks: final exam

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Nov 19

Keeping Up with the Belks: final exam

How to resign with dignity move on to bigger and better things.

So, you had your day in court. You properly slandered your enemies in the media. You selfishly pursued your own interests. You willfully disobeyed the law. You acted with complete disregard to your personal image. You stated your case in front of God and North Carolina.  You did good.

And then the unthinkable happened.  You lost.

There are only three things left to do:

1) Be comforted by the immortal words of Winston Churchill:

If you are going to go through hell, keep going.

or

You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.

or

A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty.

(You wouldn’t believe how many applicable Churchill quotes there are for this situation )

2) Quit before they fire you Make a permanent adjustment to your employment contract.  By sending the the most rushed resignation letter in the history of judicial resignations:

actual copy obtained by KUWTB

actual copy obtained by KUWTB

3) Continue on the path to world domination. Sure it would be fun to sentence Belk shoplifters to death while continuing to work on the board of a hamburger restaurant.  But the road to victory is bumpy one.  Besides, who wants to be a piddly district court judge (who only makes $100,000 a year) when you could be Mayor or Governor.  Onward and upward….

What was it old Churchy said again?

Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.

billy

That’s the spirit.

(RIP Keeping Up with the Belk’s column.  For now…)

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