Not an Olympic Swimmer

Glistening blue pools, with icy cold water are very enticing in the summer time. Especially when the temperature tops anywhere above the high 80's--which it has for the last few days. When the sweat is literally pouring down your face and your make-up is melting off, all you wanna do is dive into the nearest crystal blue, chlorine-filled water. To stand at the waters edge, toes just peaking over the sides, arms stretched in front of you in an almost prayer like position and your body is slightly arched towards the water. All you have to do is let go--launch your body forward, jump out and let your head hit the water with your legs to follow.

It's really that easy! One little push off and instant relief washes over your overheated body.

Well, for most people.

Most people being everyone but me.

Yes world, I am one of the few people in the world (not including babies who can't swim yet) who can't dive. Never could and probably never will.

And trust me, it's not for lack of trying. One summer while up the Poconos visiting my aunt, she spent an entire day in the lake teaching my younger sister and I to dive. I watched as my sister easily caught on to my aunt's instructions. My sister stood positioned on a dock as my aunt stretched her arms out across her body and told her to lean over her arms with her arms reaching into the water.

"Now, just lean over farther and let go," she told her. Instantly, my sister did just that. Three more times is all my sister needed after that to get it completely on her own. I, on the other hand, was a lost cause. Almost a half hour later my aunt wanted to call it a day. Needless to say, I was done in the lake for that weekend.

Later that summer while babysitting with my best friend at her aunt's house, she attempted to teach me again in their in-ground pool. This time, my best friend used noodles, the pool net, and she even stood on the diving board with me. Naturally, she dove right in and by the time she popped up out of the water, I was still standing there on the board--legs shaking a bit. Again and again we tried, but it just wouldn't happen and eventually she gave up too.

I just couldn't figure out how to do it. It was completely beyond me.

Let me rephrase the above statement. I know how to dive--I know how to position my body and launch myself forward into the water. I've had enough people try and teach me that I know the exact instructions they will give. But my body physically repels the thought of diving. I physically cannot do it--my psyche will not allow my head to hit the water first, as it should do. Every time I try, I'd launch off the edge of the pool with my arms out and my head down, but my feet would always hit the water first. The top half of my body cooperates but the bottom half fights me every step of the way--it literally looks like I'm just jumping into the pool with my arms in front of me.

It's actually really embarrassing. Especially when I reflect on the years that I swam competitively for my grade school's CYO. My school had a really good team--we had a few swimmers who were actually nationally ranked and Junior Olympics bound.

Naturally my parents signed me and my 3 siblings up for the swim team, but I obviously was hopeless. I would stand up on the the blocks during meets and look completely the part--team bathing suit, swimming cap, TYR goggles, little trim body--but the second that whistle blew, I was found out. I looked like the biggest ass during those meets and I can't blame the coaches for not putting me in as many races as they could. I will say this, I am/was a pretty mean backstroker. But again, you don't have to dive to be a good backstroker.

There's something about my head hitting the water first that literally scares me to death. Like I'm afraid of not pulling up in time and hitting my head on the bottom of the pool. Drowning, really, I think is the worst way to die. And psychologically, I think that's what stops my body. And I'm pretty sure I know where that fear comes from.

Like most Philadelphians, our summers are spent at the Jersey Shore. All of my summer memories involve the shore in some capacity. But my earliest shore memory is one from when I was 5. That summer, we stayed in a motel in Cape May for a few days that had an in-ground pool. We were definitely beach people, but on one particular day my parents (including my older sister and my 3 year old sister) decided to hang back and  let us swim in the motel pool. And I loved the pool even though I couldn't swim yet. I loved jumping in and splashing around. But I also hated it because in order for me to go into the pool, I had to put on a swimmie. Now the ones we had in the 80's were a lot different than the ones they have now.

Yeah, I wish I had these.

The one I had to wear basically had a bathing suit/wet suit top that went over your head and then a round raft went around your waist. It was awful--so awful that I can't even find a picture of one! You had to be wet to get into it, and most of the time you had to force in down over your head. Then when you wanted to take it off, it clung to your body like an extra skin. It was the biggest pain in the ass. I actually starting swimming  in baby pools just so I didn't have to put it on.

On this particular day, I had had enough with the swimmie. I had been swimming for about an hour, under the watchful eye of my parents who were sitting in beach chairs on the pools edge and I felt smothered by the swimmie. I got out at one point and took it off --I liked going under water and the swimmie didn't exactly allow that. So I stripped it off and crept back into the pool.

"Penny you stay near the steps," my mom called.

"I'm fineeeee! I'm just going in a bit further," I told her, being a complete rebel even at 5 years old. So I stepped down from the steps and felt the freedom of walking into a pool without my swimmie. With my feet firmly planted on the pool bottom, I slid further and further into the pool. I felt invincible. My feet inched along the pool bottom and I kept pushing forward, little by little, all the while waiting for my mom to yell at me. Then it happened.

The pool bottom dropped an inch and I went under. The water swirled above my head as I was completely submerged. I could feel the air being sucked out of my lungs, but I didn't struggle or fight. I remember opening my eyes--for the first time under water--and looking up. Light was reflecting into the pool and it shown right to the bottom. It flicked and danced all around me. It really felt magical and the world was quiet. I wasn't scared, from what I remember but could feel my chest heave under the pressure. I'm not sure how long I was under before I felt my body grabbed and then lifted out of the water. I gasped and coughed for breath, as my dad carried me to my mom's waiting arms. I burst into tears while she held me, and watched as my dad took off his soaked shoes, drenched wallet, and ruined money that was still in his pockets when he urgently jumped into the pool to save me.

Needless to say, I never swam without my swimmie again. And my mom immediately enrolled me in swimming lessons at our local Swim Club. But, after that one experience I was hesitant about the water and swimming. The swimming lessons were horrific because they were according to age--where I needed to be actually swimming at that point and not wading in the pool. I screamed my head off the first time they tried to make me go down the slide into the 5 foot pool. After a day of that, my mom pulled me out of the 5 and up age group and I was put with the 5 and under--back in the baby pool. I don't think I officially learned to swim until I was 8 or 9.

So I guess you can see that I have a love, hate relationship with the pool and its pretty deep seeded. Diving into a pool is just not in the cards for me and I'm okay with that. Yes, it's embarrassing as hell but also kind of funny to explain and demonstrate to people. But, there's just some things in life a person is not meant to do.  

Guess I'll never go to the Olympics for swimming. But I'll live.
Not everyone needs a gold medal to survive.

Couch Potato

As new a member of the unemployment line, I have been trying to stay very active as a means of not going completely crazy and get my life on track. I get up everyday at 6am, eat a well balanced breakfast of fruit and various grain. I then proceed to run 6 times around my development, which comes out to about 3 miles. After my run, I do 30 minutes of strength and core training to build up my abs. Usually it's about 11 o'clock by the time I'm all through. After that I run any errands and go on the slew of interviews that I have lined up for the employers who are dying to hire me. I read a book a day and also write until my fingers hurt. Every day, I make my family a 3-course gourmet dinner, clean the entire house and oh yeah.....find the cure for cancer. Very, Very productive days.

Yeah, right.

Obviously, the entire paragraph above is bullshit.

Here's the real deal: I sleep as late as I want (which I haven't been able to do in years, so that in itself is great), I wake up and move my sorry ass to the couch and channel surf for the majority of the afternoon, I think about getting up an exercising and sometimes I even attempt it ( I borrowed the Jillian Michaels DVDs from my best friend and have actually gotten about ten minutes in and given up. She is a nasty, nasty bitch), I spend a lot of time on the internet searching for new jobs and opportunities, I try to write but get so frustrated with the crap coming out of my brain that I give up and revert back to the television, I wait until my friends are home from work and either try to coax them into hanging out or beg them to, I read (so that's not bullshit), and I wait to go to bed.

The end.

Pretty pathetic, I know. But I'm still getting used to this whole unemployment thing--I'm honestly not used to having a hectic and full schedule. I've been running on all four cylinders for years now, and not having to do that is very weird to me. I feel like I'm in a constant weekend frame of mind and my psyche is all messed up from it. Like I'm in this never ending vacation in my head and I don't need to do anything but relax and be lazy. But in reality, that's not the case. I need to be doing more. I know I need to get myself onto a set schedule and start doing something constructive with my days because I don't want to be a sloth. Or a "hermit" as my mom calls it.

I'll get there, I promise. I just need to get my head on straight first.

So that's my rant for the night, now onto the point of this post!

I have obviously been watching an obscene amount of TV out of pure boredom. And as I've heard my Dad say repeatedly while flipping through channels, "500 channels and not a damn thing on." Yes, Daddy you would be correct. TV programming has seriously gone into the crapper over that last few years. Instead of supporting quality shows and writing, networks are pumping cash into shit programming--case in point the Kardashians. I heard a few weeks ago that this talent-less family got $40 million to continue taping with their NBC affiliate. $40 million for a show that was launched based off of a sex-tape scandal? If nothing, the Kardashian's were geniuses to cash in while the fire was hot.

That being said, I have become OBSESSED with the following reality shows. To the point that I feel like I go into a daze when there's a string of episodes on at once, and I only realize hours have gone by once a different show comes on.

Mountain Men

 This little gem was introduced to me by my youngest sister and Dad--one night they were talking like the Mountain Men for hours and I won't lie, their drawls and grunts made me very intrigued. On the History Channel, the program follows the lives of 3 men who live solely off their land in Alaska, Montana and South Carolina. These men literally live for trapping and living in the woods (as foreign as that may be). Seriously, it's addicting. Made me want to pack my stuff and move to Alaska. Well not really--I'd much rather watch from the comfort of my comfy bed, then have to worry about skinning beavers for meat or deal with frigid winter weather--the one guy Martin in this show had to walk 10 miles to his cabin because his snow mobile broke down. Yeah, it was -10* outside. No way!

Animal Cops Houston

This show is literally my crack. Not even kidding you. Animal Planet is a constant on my TV just because I love the animals. But this show takes it to a whole new level. It's all about the Houston SPCA and the above pictured badasses cracking down on animal cruelty. At times it is really sad--especially when animals are rescued from awful living conditions or need to be euthanized because they are in such horrible shape--but it always ends on a good note with the animals finding loving homes. It has made me want to drive down to Houston and adopt a horse. Not even kidding.

Deadliest Catch

No, I am not late to this party. I've been watching this show for years but I've recently become more obsessed. If you are living under a rock, this show follows the crab-fishers (is there another name for them?) of Alaska, who go out into the farthest parts of the ocean to fish for king-crab and opis (again, is that how you say it?). But this is no joke--you fall into the Arctic Ocean and you are dead. The show amazes me just because of the brute strength of these guys--they work like 20 hour days for days on end and at the end of their 3 week stretch, each crew-member usually walks away with $20,000.00. Like holy crap! If I didn't get horribly sea-sick, I'd sign up in a second. Hey.....maybe that's my life calling.....

Kinda funny that my favorite shows these days mostly revolve around real burly men. Is someone trying to tell me something?

Anyway, check these shows out. Trust me, they're awesome! And will totally fill your reality TV fix, without having to admit that you actually watch the Kardashians.

Wrong Turn

 Here's a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote for a class back in college. The assignment was to complete a 150 word piece of fiction, but each student was given a title and a first line (that another individual in the class wrote). Then another peer was to read and critique it blindly (our names were not printed on the assignment), then present to the class. When my classmate stood up and read my piece, my stomach turned. But then the entire class broke out if uncontrollable laughter. Which only became louder once I announced it was mine.

I guess that's a good thing? Haha

Enjoy!

It’s funny how death seemed to stand still, as Sam was about to come crashing into it. The tires screeched and debris flew in through the window, as Sam’s SUV tumbled down a hill into a ravine. He thought little of how he had gotten there—swerving from a deer that would assuredly adorn a hunter’s mantle in a month. His life didn’t flash before his eyes—as most people say when they have near death experiences. Rather, he had one blinding thought:

Women’s underwear.

Because that is what he was wearing beneath his Levi jeans. He saw the coroner removing the tattered jeans from his broken body, carefully cutting the pant legs up the middle, only to find a man wearing women’s underwear. 

A thong actually. With big pink hearts.

Then, he imagined that same coroner handing over the personal items left from the crash to his aggrieved and tear stricken family. Holding up the underwear he asks, with a sly smile and mocking tone;

“Should we burn these?”

So, as the car finally hit the bottom of the ravine, Sam couldn’t help but laugh.

And pray that his car would explode.

Not Looking Back....

I took my dad's advice and have taken a few days to "decompress and calm down."

No more crying, no more panic attacks, no more curse words or frantic outbursts. No more trying to make sense of it all, while accomplishing nothing. I am as calm and panic free as I can be--and trust me that isn't a lot. I have accepted what happened and feel at peace with it now, knowing it is for the best and I am a better person for it. But part of this acceptance is also letting it all out and not hiding behind it anymore. I am no longer ashamed.

So here goes.

On Wednesday, I was fired.

At approximately 2:30 pm, I was called down to the Business Manager's office--the same office where I accepted the offer of employment--and handed a sheet a paper. I was then told that my employment with their company was immediately terminated due to my "skill set not being appropriate for the position." While being asked if I needed a box to collect my things, I happened to look at my official "You're fired, get the hell out," letter and noticed that they spelled my name wrong. Pretty funny when you consider I worked as an Editor.

I walked back to my desk in a zombie-like state, where my "lovely" co-workers happened to have conveniently disappeared from and grabbed my stuff.  I said goodbye to no one--after the hell they had put me thru over the last 3 months, they didn't deserve a single thing from me. I am proud to say that I kept my shit together until I got to my car--I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. But the minute my car door slammed, I lost it. And how the heck my dad understood what I said between sobs, I have no clue. All I heard from his side was, "Those sons-of-bitches! Come home, okay? Calm down and come home."

Calming down was not an option at the moment, but somehow I was able to make the treacherous drive home on the New Jersey turnpike. And of course, my entire family had gotten the news and swarmed to my house. All had their own advice and assurances, but honestly I didn't hear any of it. My mind was swarming with student loans, car payments, insurance bills, and the biggest sense of failure I had of date. The last was the worst bit--I left a job where I had security and made a big to do about it, and now was fired just shy of 3 months. And as I filled out the unemployment application my sister had pulled up on the internet, I felt the gravity of the situation even more.

I was now a stereotype.

After that, I needed to get out of the house. I retreated to my best friends house where she had a large cocktail waiting for me. I pretty much spent the next three days with her and her family, which was probably the best thing I did. Because they kept me laughing and not welling up in dread and anxiety. Eventually, my other friends found out and I had a large outpouring of support and understanding from them and most of my family.

But I was still pretty ashamed of the entire situation.  I hated having to explain to people what happened, why I was fired and what they said to me. I have always been proud of the fact that I have never been fired from a job, even part time jobs in high school. But reviewing the entire situation  over and over made me realize one thing about my 3 month employment stint--I was a scapegoat. My co-workers had an issue with me from the minute I walked into that office. If it was my age or qualifications, I'm not too sure but they were hateful, spiteful people towards me from the get-go. They never gave me a chance to prove myself, but were quick to run to my boss every time I made a mistake. At times, I felt like I was in Nazi-occupied Poland because everything I did was watched and reported back to my superior. One woman in particular--a self-proclaimed "Church Lady"--liked to keep running tabs on me. If I stopped working for even an instant, she was breathing down my neck and running to my boss with accusations and lies--and I know about this because my boss called me down to her office several times and told me. Really, I should've seen it coming, especially when they made a huge deal about hiring someone as an editor the week before. All this to say, I was fired to make room for this woman. And in retrospect, they hired me to fill a space temporarily--again, I know this because my boss was constantly pressured by the business side to hire more people, which she refused to do. I was hired to shut them up, and then fired when someone better came along.

My "skill set" had absolutely nothing to do with it. But it did have everything to do with caddy, high school bull shit.

But even after this introspective look at the situation, my biggest enemy was  still my ego and pride--most asked right away if I could go back to my other job or take a waitress job to compensate the unemployment. Both of which I completely shot down. "I'd rather chop off each of my fingers one at a time," I told them. I refuse to take a step back.

So where do I go from here?

Back to sending out resumes and applications
My unemployment has been accepted and will kick in in about a week
Of my two student loan carriers, only one (naturally the lesser payment) is willing to defer my payments until I secure employment--stress number 1 at the moment
My parents are in constant vigil over me, trying to keep me busy
My room has never been cleaner
I am grossly aware of my bank account and what I spend
I am happier

Most of my friends think I should take the summer off and just enjoy myself--a summer vacation of sorts. Which I will admit I am half tempted to do. But I think I will try and focus on writing and getting a publisher for my novel and go from there. I do have an interview Thursday for an editing job with a firm I had interviewed 3 times for back in December. They were actually thrilled to hear from me, so I guess that's a good thing.

I'm not sure what happens next for me. But I do know this situation hasn't beat me. More importantly, those bitches haven't beat me.

Fireflies in Red Solo Cups

I pulled onto my street around midnight on Sunday, after a graduation barbeque at a friends house. The street was silent and empty--it was pretty late, even for it being Memorial Day weekend and all my neighbors seemed to be tucked away in their nice air conditioned houses. The day was a complete scorcher with temperatures topping in the 90's for the majority of the day-- it was actually too hot for a barbeque, if that's at all possible. I actually felt bad for my friend's mom. She could have easily passed out from heat exhaustion.

But the heat had finally broken as the sun set and it felt nice to drive home with my windows open.

I turned off my headlights, my music, then the ignition and opened my car door to jump out. As I turned to my side to grab my purse, I happened to look out the passenger side window and saw them. Tiny, little blips of light hovering over my lawn. Blinking on and off every few seconds, never in unison but singing their very own song. Ten or so, they moved with the wind but always stayed close to the trees. They only hovered in the same place for a few seconds, then on they went.

Wondering if it was only my lawn, I looked across the street to my neighbor's and waited a few seconds. And there they were again--little, blinking stars fallen from heaven.

I instantly smiled.

Fireflies had arrived. Or lightning bugs as we call them in my neighborhood.

They ushers of summer. The one true symbol that heat and freedom had finally arrived--dispelling the memories of bitter cold and winter. Their presence lit dusk like shimmering diamonds on the horizon, and beckoned all children to run and play.

Well, to me anyway.

When I was little, the streets of my neighborhood were always buzzing with kids. Every single house in my development had at least two kids under the age of 10. Most of which congregated on my street. Especially during the summer, where everyone was looking for something fun and new to do.

I won't lie, I was basically the ring-leader of fun--basically because I was one of the eldest on my block and had the biggest mouth. Everyday, I had a new game invented--whether it was Steal-the-Bacon on bikes, relay races up on big wheels,  or scavenger hunts. Summer was my specialty because games could last longer and we had free ride of the neighborhood.

But, I also had certain rules about the summer. And having the biggest mouth, all tended to follow suit.

One of these rules happened to be about lightening bugs.

"But school's almost over! It has to be summer," they'd say.
"Nope! It's not officially summer until the lightning bugs come out. You can't call it summer until we see them," I'd answer without a second thought.

Lightening bugs were important to me. I don't know why but they were. Their little black bodies, red heads, and translucent tails that gave them their name meant summer and endless possibilities.

And because I was the oldest, no one disagreed.

Or dared call it summer until we saw lightning bugs.

So every night, we'd sit on my lawn and wait. And wait. Wait until we saw any pops of light. But there was also a system to it. We'd  each pick a piece of the lawn, so everywhere was covered and we'd stare. Stare into nothing for hours on end, hoping to be the first one to see them and scream, "IT'S SUMMER!" There was never just one, they'd always appear in clumps. And the second we saw them, we'd go running like mad cats into the house, grabbing cups and anything we could find to hold them.

Then the game really began.

We'd have a certain amount of time to catch as many as we could--basically until our parents called us in, which was usually between 8 and 9 o'clock.--and then let them go in a big flurry of light. Well not so much light but it was definitely cool to watch them all take off.

Naturally it wasn't easy to catch them. You had to sneak up, palms open and still. At the exact moment that they blinked, you needed to snap your hand out and close your fingers around them. One swift motion, with no breath in between. And then slowly, you had to open your fingers and drop them into your waiting cup because even if you caught one, they could just as easily escape.

A tried and sure method--trust me, I was really good at it.

You also never wanted to keep them so long that they'd die. That was never the point of the game and if you killed any, they didn't count. It was also best to have a see-through cup so you could see all your captives flying around inside (usually, we ended up using red solo cups, which is pretty funny when I think about it now).

When the game ended, we declared the winner and we let all the lightening bugs go,. They'd go flying off to their beds as we did to ours.  And the next night, it would start all over again. We'd have two and half months to catch and release as many lightning bugs as we could. Two and a half months of freedom.

That was the first thing I thought of when I got home on Sunday. About how much I wanted to run inside, wake up my sisters and start up the game all over again. Then I remembered my sisters were in Wildwood and most likely drunk at a bar.

Summer is never the same after you turn 10.

Instead, I decided to sit on my lawn and just watch them fly around me, like little fairies dancing on the wind.

"It's Summer!"

Poppies for Pop

My  Grandfather is definitely a baseball cap and jeans type of guy. He always has been and you couldn't pay him to wear a suit for more than an hour. And he has a pretty extensive collection of hats. Whether it be for Philadelphia sports teams--which he probably buys a new one for each season--or from his granddaughter's alma maters. Pop Pop is not Pop Pop without a hat, and his hats do not seem to be the same without a small red flower that he moves from hat to hat.

The red flower being a poppy.

It doesn't matter which hat he wears or if the colors clash, he moves the red flower from hat to hat. Adorning the brim or pinned on the top, it seems to mold into the hat and also his personality. And your eyes can't help but be drawn to the little red petals.

For as long as I can remember, I have seen the poppy as part of Pop's wardrobe, but never truly understood what the meaning behind the small little red flower was. Actually, that's a lie. When I was really little I thought my Pop wore the poppy to make us, his family happy because of how much we all enjoyed "The Wizard of Oz". If you are familiar with the movie, Dorothy and her friends can finally see the Emerald City on the horizon and only one small field separates them from the glittering green. A small field of poppies. Running through the field was the only way to reach it, which was exactly the plan of the Wicked Witch of the West. The minute the living (or Dorothy, the Cowardly Lion, and Toto) stepped into the field and inhaled the poppy scent, they fell into a wakeless sleep.

It made perfect sense at the time, I swear! It was the only logical explanation  for him wearing the flower and the only other place I had seen the poppy flower.

Obviously, I was a bit misguided by my love of the musical. On top of the complete misrepresentation of the flower, I also believed that all poppies were in fact poisonous and put you into a magical sleep  from which no one would wake(which kind of is correct if you think about the opiate qualities of the flower).

It wasn't until years later that I realized what the poppy flower actually stood for and why, more importantly, my Pop decided to make it part of his everyday wardrobe.

Here's a little history lesson for those who don't know...

Poppies are native to Belgium, and during WWI the flower still found a way to bloom through all the bloodshed on the battlefields where many young men lost their lives. It was a major juxtaposition to see such a beautiful flower popping up around the bodies and blood of so many. Inspired by this, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae from Canada wrote a poem.

Capturing the sorrow and grief of his fallen brothers, the poem connected all soldiers in one common bond. The poem was soon after published in the Ladies Home Journal, where Moine Michael happened to find it. So inspired by the words that in 1918 Ms. Michael wrote a response poem.

"We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows of fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies,
That blood of heroes
never dies."

And instead of just writing about the poppy, Ms. Michael also started to make silk replicas of the flowers and sell them to benefit servicemen in need.

And I guess the rest is history. The poppy is now the symbol of fallen soldiers and still continues to be sold by VFW members across the country--especially around Memorial Day, which is the one day of the year we are meant to memorialize and recognize the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom (in case you have forgotten why we have off Monday).

Even after I figured all this out, I still had no clue why Pop decided to wear a poppy even when it wasn't Memorial Day. It made sense to wear it for the holiday, but every day just seemed a little odd. I even remember asking my Dad the reason for it. He answered me quite simply, "Because Pop was in the War and lost a lot of friends over there."

At the time, I didn't know my grandfather was in WWII. I knew he served somewhere (I actually remember telling my 5th grade teacher that Pop was in the marines and served in Korea. I wasn't even close) but I had no clue as to the extent of it. Because Pop never talked about his war days. To anyone--not even my grandmom or his own kids.

Not until about 9 years ago.

Pop  was in the Navy and served in the Pacific during the American Theater Campaign during WWII. He served on a salvage vessel and was sent bouncing around the multiple Pacific islands preventing ships from sinking after being hit by kamikazes and to deal with the dead. At the young age of 19, Pop saw more bloodshed and death than any person ever should. He has stories for days, stories that have changed my life and writing. He is the bravest man I have ever known, but even brave men have their weaknesses--Pop still has nightmares from his days at sea  and some stories still bring him to tears.
 
He will be 90 years old this year,  and there isn't a day that goes by that he isn't proud of having served our country. And wearing the poppy is one way he shows his pride and acknowledges the lives of his fallen brothers.

"Steiny" age 19

"Steiny" in 1989

I am proud to be the granddaughter of a soldier, and not just on Memorial Day but every day. And I will be sure to buy poppies from all veterans I see this weekend.

Will you do the same?

Bar Dancing to Walker Dragging?

So I am two weeks into my new age. Yes, I have come to accept that I turned 26 at the beginning of the month. I accept it, I am embracing it, not loving it yet but eventually I will get there. I still stumble when people ask me how old I am, but I guess that's normal. I don't know what it is, but since turning a year older I have started questioning a lot of what I'm doing. The people I associate with, the repercussions of my actions, what I want for myself later down the road. But more importantly, I started questioning one thing when it comes to my age. A question that came out loud and clear this weekend.

What would this question be, you may ask? Well I'll tell you.

Am I too old for the bar scene? Or more importantly, when is it too old for the bar scene?

Yes, I realize this question is sort of obvious. If you have a family at home but you are clubbing it up every night at the local bar, you are too old for the bar scene. If you are spending more time at the bar then at your job, you are too old for the bar scene. If you collect social security and still knock back 3 Jack and Coke's before dinner, you are too old for the bar scene. If you have a walker, dentures, replaced knees, or wear orthopedic shoes you are too old for the bar scene.

These two were obviously born before orthodontia.

Now of course there are exceptions to these rules. Family parties, gatherings of old friends, old man bars like VFW posts that are specifically for the elderly, bars that happen to have good food. But if you are actively pursuing bars that are primarily suited for people under the age of 30 and House Music is playing, there might be an issue.

Yes, I know I don't fit any of the above descriptions, but I think there is also a fine line to be drawn for people of a certain age. Or more specifically, certain situations in the bar scene that are no longer desirable or wanted.

Let me explain.

This past weekend, my youngest sister became gainfully employed at a new bar that was opening on 3rd and Spring Garden downtown (next to McFadden's--the location used to be Buckheads or Tiki Bob's. For some reason no bar has seemed to fit in that location. A bad omen? I think so). The bar--hilariously named Johnny Utah's (if you don't get this reference, go watch Pointbreak with Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze, as pictured below)

The bar has absolutely nothing to do with the movie by the way, except it's namesake. It's country western themed, complete with a barrel of peanuts for pick and grab (peanut allergists are not warned of this by the way, so if you have 'em, stay far away!), drinks out of mason jars, a mechanical bull, only plays country music and cowhide decorations adorn ever inch of the wall. Definetely a random bar to not only put next to McFadden's but also in the city of Philadelphia. My sister, who basically got hired because she was a pretty 20-something year old who could fill out a pair of shorts, was hired as a shot girl. As a shot girl, my sister is to wear Daisy Duke shorts, cowboy boots, a belt buckle almost as large as her shorts, a very revealing and tight top, and learn 4 choreographed numbers that are to be performed on top of the bar at various times during her shifts.

Basically, she's the underpaid entertainment for the droves of drunken men this bar hoped to lore.

My parents didn't have much to say--they were honestly glad she even got the job and will have a decent income coming in.

Last weekend was opening night and my sister practically begged me to go down and support her--another part of hiring her was that she was required to get 10 people to come to opening night. Didn't want my sister getting fired after one shift, so I agreed. I, in turn, begged my cousin to come with me so I'd at least have someone to laugh with as we watched her shake her ass on the bar and attempt not to fall.

Now I have been to some seedy bars before with questionable attendees and staff. I went to college outside of Allentown, and Bethlehem had its fair share of skanky bars. But seriously, this one put all of those to shame.

It was Skanks-R-Us.

And the entire horny, Philadelphian male population seemed to be crowded inside.

We hadn't even gotten inside before we were hit on by a group of guys standing outside. "Where are your Daisy Duke's?" they cat-called. Me and my cousin didn't know there was a dress-code, nor would we have actually worn said shorts that night, so we decided to ignore them as we handed the bouncer our IDs. Unsatisfied, they kept yelling and asking until I turned around and said, "Where are yours?" I at least got a laugh out of the bouncer!

Finally inside, we could barely move or get close to the bar. It was that crowded. We had to wait 15 minutes to even get close to the bar and then an additional 20 before someone took our order. I'm sorry, but who has the patience for that shit. After we finally asked for our beers, the bar girls started clearing off the bar and wiping it down. It was DANCING TIME!

Considering my sister had to report to the bar three days a week for dance classes, I'll admit I was expecting a little more. It was basically a strip show, without the stripper poles or flying dollar bills.

Like this but with cowboy boots

Guys were snapping pictures, drooling all over themselves,trying to get good views to see right up the girls shorts, girls were grinding on top of each other, and all I wanted was another freaking beer which I wouldn't get until these dumb bitches (not including my sister of course) got off the damn bar.

After what seemed like forever, the bar reopened and I was able to get another drink. But then our attention was drawn to the center of the bar where the mechanical bull was situated. I hope everyone reading is familiar with the mechanical bull concept. Simulating a real bull ride, the point is for the rider to stay on as long as possible. The operator had control to make the bull go as fast or slow as they wanted, and they could basically send you flying on a whim. At Johnny Utah's, the point was to get really drunk girls to ride the bull and simulate sex for the googling guys standing around the pit. The prettier the girl, the lower cut her shirt, the louder the guys would hoot and the more drinks they'd order.

So when our attention was turned back to the bull, the DJ had convinced two blondes to ride the bull together. Instead of riding the normal way, the girls were instructed to face and basically straddle each other. Yeah, it didn't leave much to the imagination but here is a visual if you need one.

Yup.

Naturally, how could the drunken, blonde idiots say no. They climbed on top and managed to stay on for a good five minutes. I guess the DJ started getting bored because then he announced to the crowd that if the bull riders made-out he would buy the entire bar a shot. Needless to say, they obliged.

Again, the complete degradation of the female sex. I couldn't help thinking about the feminist movement and all those women burning their bras in the 60's. What would they think watching this display?

My eyes wouldn't stop rolling and I was pretty sure I had seen enough for one night.

But, I guess I was wrong or I should've left then. Because then the "Daisy Duke Contest" started at the back bar. I was essentially pushed forward to the bar by the crush of drunken guys behind me who didn't want to miss a second of the continued sexapade. This contest would involve all contestants (obviously female and wearing Daisy Duke shorts) to dance on top of the bar for 2 minutes. The winner would be chosen based on the crowd's reaction. "Oh Jesus," I thought.

So 6 girls jumped on top of the bar and the contest began. It was pretty harmless. Most of the girls at least attempted to hold on to their dignity--besides the fact that they were dancing on top of a bar. I actually was pretty relieved, until a more zealous girl at the end of the bar decided to take off her top while dancing. Naturally, the crowd went wild, guys pushed towards her and started snapping pictures. Again, all she needed was a stripper pole. Obviously, that skank--I mean girl-- won. Who knows what that prize was, considering she had the Skank-award locked down, but she seemed happy enough to put her clothes back on.

After that, I turned to my cousin who had the same look of disgust on her face and we mutually decided to get the hell out of there and go to McFadden's.

But those few short hours pretty much ruined my night and I couldn't wait to get home and into pajamas. We stayed until last call, but left the city feeling disgusted and like complete feminists. I'm sorry to say for my sister's sake, I will never EVER go back to Johnny Utah's.

Now I put the question to you. Am I just too old for the bar scene? Is Johnny Utah's the state of bars in this country? Are women expected to act like prostitutes, shake their asses and act a fool for over-sexed men? Am I just a prude and should get over myself?

I honestly can't answer these questions  myself. It seems whenever I go to bars these days--even bars without gimmicks that get the crowd in and pray to have them coming back for more--I have similar experiences. I find myself disgusted at the lengths some will go to, to attract members of the opposite sex. Don't get me wrong, I still have fun when I go out, but I'm just not sure if it's still as fun as it used to be.

I think I'll have to do a little more investigating on this. But for now, I'll just blame it on being 26...and old.