You Say “Tortilla and Cheese,” I Say “Quesadilla”

Every family has some nonsensical saying or word that has been passed down for so many generations that no one can really place accurate blame on its creator. Not surprising to anyone who has met my family, we have a lot of them. Our sayings range from the regionally acceptable “dumber than sled tracks” to the convoluted “hot pad holder” (it’s a pot holder…who would’ve guessed?).

The prime suspect for our oddest sayings is Grandma, who thinks it’s normal to call a model home a “sample home” or claims that perfume has a lovely “odor.” For all the off-the-wall things Grandma says, more often than not she uses the correct word, although the definition is the last one listed or is noted as obsolete. Sometimes her English language relics cause some problems when in polite company. One time Grandma was telling my parents’ Sunday school teacher a story about how my grandfather always made people feel important and said, “Oh, when [so-and-so] came into the room that day, Julian just ejaculated all over him!” Everyone was in shock and knew she couldn’t mean what they all thought she did. After years of telling the story and laughing about it, my mom finally looked “ejaculate” up in the dictionary and we all stood corrected.

Though someone who comes from my gene pool should not cast stones, I’m going to lob a big one at my boyfriend Eric anyway. We’ve had many heated arguments over the proper name for cheese melted onto a tortilla and served with the tortilla folded over. For the first 8 months of our relationship, I kept my mouth shut when he said he was going to make a “tortilla and cheese.” One evening, when I was in an especially foul mood, I said, “Eric, for the love of God, it’s called a quesadilla. Do you name all the ingredients of everything else you cook?” He argued that quesadillas are totally different from tortilla and cheeses, like two completely different species of food that necessitate two names. Apparently in his family, a tortilla and cheese is microwaved and a quesadilla is grilled. After over a month of confrontation in front of the microwave, I have conceded. Not because I believe he’s right, because he’s not , but because he isn’t completely wrong, just very descriptive. Maybe we'll eventually be able to use my hot pad holders to get the tortilla and cheese out of the microwave without a second thought.

Well, We're All Pink on the Inside

When I was 12 years old, I was desperately in love with Thomas Ian Nicholas. My friend Lauren and I collected pictures and tidbits of information from magazines, but it just wasn’t satisfying enough. Our dream was to someday meet him and hear him say, “Kelly (or Lauren, but hopefully Kelly), run away with me and be mine forever.” Well, last week I was on MySpace, and who did I have a friend request from? Yes, Thomas himself. I wanted to hug my 12-year-old self and prance around jubilantly with her. O...M…G…what should I do? I clicked to send Thomas a message and anxiously drummed my fingers on the keyboard, trying to think of the best way to e-connect with him without being a total e-tard. I settled on: “Hi, I just thought I’d tell you that I had a huge crush on you when I was in 6th grade. Good to (sort of) meet you all these years later. Take care.” I’m fully aware that I looked like a weirdo, and that he may have been offended that I’m no longer crushin’ on him, but I had to do it.

The next day he responded, “Thanks.” I had hoped for more than one word and was a little pouty. With that message went my last little shred of celebrity awe, and I knew that even T.I.N. was just like anyone else and wrote terse responses to the strangers who send MySpace messages declaring love, lust, or, in this case, former love(ish).

I wasn’t too much for celebrity crushes when I was young, so that’s why this one stood out. Despite that, until my twenties, I at least was impressed by the idea of celebrity. That deteriorated after a couple encounters over a few years while I was out in DC.

When I was out one night, the guitarist from a famous band wanted to buy me a drink. I told him no thanks, I was the D.D. He got all indignant and said, “Excuse me?!” I repeated what I said and he retorted, “When a man offers to buy you a drink, you need to take it.” That set me off. He shouted, “Do you know who I am?!” I let out something between a snort and guffaw, and he spat, “I’m (name withheld)!!!!” I narrowed my eyes, squared my shoulders and spat back, “Do you know who I am? I’m KELLY VANDERSLUIS!!!” It was clearly time to go at that point.

I have also had separate encounters with two very well-known whiny singer/song-writer guitar playing pansies. Both leered, attempted fondling, and generally freaked us all out like we thought only drunken frat guys could do. So, after all that, my friends and I have learned that money and one’s name on a CD section at Target or movie poster do not make people any different than those we already know.

Oh, and Thomas, you're welcome to run away with someone else now. We're so over.

In Consideration of Mortality

Dorian Gray, I understand now. However, truth be known, I should’ve had the foresight to hide a portrait of myself a few years ago. Today I’m 25. I woke up with palpitations to the realization that I am no longer able to rely on my youth and assumed inexperience to get away with anything I want. However, now I can rent a car nationwide and my insurance company considers me far less of a liability than they did yesterday (suckers). But, car rental and lower insurance payments certainly don’t make up for the promise of a slower metabolism, wrinkles, and eventually getting around by Scootabout.

I worked with an old guy who would go into coughing fits resulting in him horking up something gross, fall asleep in every meeting he attended, and protest technology whenever possible. Also, he inexplicably smelled like vegetable soup. It looks like with age, you eventually just stop caring about what people think and do whatever you want whenever.

So, I guess getting older has its advantages. Last year I was mistakenly sent my AARP membership card. I was too nervous to try to use it, but there are some serious discounts out there for the older population. I did my best to convince my mom on her 55th birthday to come to IHOP with me so we could get a senior citizen discount. She was rather uppity about it for someone who uses Grandma’s handicap hangtag when Grandma isn’t out with her.

A nearby cemetery with a macabre sense of humor posted a sign at the entrance that says, “Fall Sale!” You wouldn’t think that there would be such a marketing push for something that everyone will need eventually. However, as my grandfather said regularly for 20 years before he died, “Every second is just one tick closer to death.”

Tick-tock, tick-tock...

Virginia, You're So Vain

I love my state, but really, Virginians enjoy a freedom of idiocy unlike any other population. Not only do we have over 180 special license plates for any interest group, state idiosyncrasy, college, or type of wild game you can think of, we also have lenient policies on what you can have written on your special plates. There are limitless possibilities for irony, obscenity, and over sharing of personal interests.

I guess I can admit that I, too, have personalized special interest plates (the Commonwealth Difecta). I self-consciously feel like others think I’m a bad person because I didn’t choose socially aware plates like Kids First or I'm Animal Friendly. But, it's not like I let toddlers play with plastic bags while I shoot puppies in a bucket...often.

I’d like to say that we’re just a friendly population who wants to connect with others on the road. For example, if Billy-Bob didn’t get NRA or Sons of Confederate Veterans plates to put his cheeky saying on, how else would Cletus know who to follow to the swap meet? Unfortunately, I think we just put the "vanity" in "vanity plates."

Sadly, 99% of the stupid, redneck, or morally questionable personalized plates immortalized on sites like College Humor are Virginia state plates. God bless Texas? Wrong. God bless Virginia where you can have plates like:

"Are you glad?"

I can’t say that I’ve even been in a more utterly vile mood than I am today. I even yelled at my mildly retarded goldfish this morning when he ran into his plant.

It all started four days ago when I fell in the post office parking lot. I’m not talking a trip. I mean, a sprawled-out, whimpering-on-concrete fall. Sure that’s embarrassing, but my very way of being made it so much worse because I always insist on wearing short skirts and walking around with my purse open, laughing in the faces of both decency and personal put-togetherness. So, like it isn’t bad enough that I’m face-down on the sidewalk and people are everywhere, but I’m there showing my hot pink thong and tan lines with my package about 5 feet in front of me and the contents of my purse littered all around. Tears in my eyes, a bleeding leg, and a big toe whose fresh polish was violently married to the concrete, I got up and started gathering the contents of my purse, which for a normal person would be easy, but for me it meant finding a wallet, keys, 5 different shades of pink lip gloss, gum, bobby pins, brush, cell, oyster crackers, another lip gloss, and a tampon.

That afternoon I flew to Atlanta with my boyfriend Eric for a photo shoot. Our flight got cancelled, and around the time I noticed my full bottle of hair goo had exploded in my bag, we learned that we were rescheduled on different flights that evening. Luckily, our meal at the Waffle House and 45 minutes of gorging ourselves on as many Coke products as possible at The World of Coke made up for the hotel room in the ghetto with soggy carpets, a cracked toilet, and a colony of silverfish; the make-up artist who called me “thick;” and a few near-death experiences on the highway navigating between speeding cars with bad rims.

But, before being completely in the depths of despair, I considered the most insightful joke of my childhood:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

The lesson to take away from this is gladness. I’ll bet you didn’t even know to be irritated by bananas until you read that; nor did you know how glad you’d be not to hear banana as an answer.

As a 4-year-old, Eric used to ask a question, wait for the answer, and respond with, “Are you glad?” How often do you think about whether or not you are glad about the simplest or even the most annoying things in the world? Though, I’m sure the “are you glad” refrain got old after a while, I think that question is an effective reality check. When else would his parents have realized that they’re glad that zebras have striped skin and giraffes have long necks so they can eat leaves?

Not only does the glad question make a person consider how much worse things could be, but it proves that being glad is a good replacement for ambivalence. I’m glad that zebras have stripes on their skin because there’s probably some evolutionary reason for it, and who am I to judge? Other than when he was sticking chopsticks up his nose, Eric was a pretty astute kid.

You know, sure my weekend sucked, but I’m glad because things look comparatively better now. And sure, my goldfish is mildly retarded, but I’m glad because he’s completely satisfied with ramming into plants and walls and is low maintenance. Are you glad for what’s going on in your life? Why not be?

Corduroy, Velvet, and Steel

One's personal catalogue of what's beautiful does not necessarily correspond with the rest of the world's. Some things are so hideous that people find them irresistible, like Chihuahuas and Rene Zelwiger. But then there are those with the rich, soft, velvety looks that make you melt like a chocolate bar left on the dash in 90 degree weather and the girls who are so exotic that you find yourself inexplicably craving tapas.

There was a time when either my inexperience with the world made me think I needed to proverbially put my looks on ice to preserve them. But, to be what we think we should be, girls willingly subject themselves to a beauty regiment that ultimately has old womaning effects from the stress, late nights, tanning, excessive make-up, and not eating. Beauty these days is not simply a rubberstamped replica of a Hollywood standard. We’ve finally reached a point when beauty truly does come in all shapes and sizes; but there’s a catch: beauty is now hooked in with everything we are.

I’ve spent the better part of my free time in 2006 modeling in all sorts of genres (no, Daddy, not nudie pictures), and I’ve learned that the more overrun our culture becomes with media, fashion, celebrity, and surgical procedures, the more beauty standards we have to choose from. Natural is the new sought-after look by at least East Coast photographers, and it is a relief from the botoxed withering roses one sees everywhere now. Everyone has something of interest about his or her looks, but that’s the easiest obstacle to overcome in being considered beautiful.

What has become important and key to stardom is the ability to do it all. Online modeling portfolios offer a long list of the model’s other talents like singing, dancing, acting, and even a place to list other languages she speaks. Desired women are not just pretty faces with smooth, even skin and sparking eyes (all of which can be created with make-up and Photoshop), they are the ones who you’d want to both look like and be like. Even the lauded experts from E!, Cosmo, and the gossip columns fail to realize how much they don’t know about how to become a cultural icon, as they sit behind their laptops casting judgments of who’s wearing what, whom, and how and reporting on everything on the surface.

Fun, flirty, pretty girls are overpriced at a dime a dozen these days. There are literally thousands of these beauties that you can't take your eyes off. The difference between your average Miss Roadside America and an icon is the corduroy, velvet, and steel that make up the icon. A real star is the woman who is as textured, multidimensional, and classic as corduroy, soft and elegant as velvet, and who conducts herself with the consistency and solidity of steel.

So quit with the Magnum and Blue Steel, and work on being it all. No pressure.