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.