The complexities of firsties

I'm beginning to find that many people either don't understand the concept or firsties, or choose to ignore it.

Maybe it's a generation gap-thing. My parents probably didn't play firsties in their younger days because older meant wiser, and wiser meant, "I do what I want and you deal with it."

But my generation ... we play firsties. Which means that everyone else should follow suit, naturally.

And the first rule to firsties is that you don't talk about firsties.

The second rule is you don't mess with the person that calls firsties. Like when I'm watching something you find laboriously boring - Grey's Anatomy for instance.

I'm a die-hard Grey's fan - I can't help but absorb every dirty detail of Meredith and McDreamy's love affair, Christina's ongoing conquest for the title of "Heart Surgeon Extraordinaire" at Seattle Grace while she treads upon every man she possibly can along the way, and the general smut that is McSteamy's life.

When it's that time, I've readied my snacks, the remote for those quiet moments, the lights are dimmed for effect; I've even laid a blanket on the recliner so my dog can sit comfortably with me for the next hour.

I don't want to be bothered.

But say, I happened to forget to visit the restroom before the show, or I need to make a quick call to ask my friend just why that narcissistic woman, once again, told McDreamy to hit the bricks, and philosophize on what idiotic thought process the producers have undergone for the next episode and why they are ruining my show.

This presents the golden opportunity for which all anti-firsties wait in the wings. Sneaky as they are, they snatch up the remote once I'm out of earshot. Quick as a wink, they turn to a favored channel, hoping to find something even slightly interesting.

And you know what happens next.

"Hey, I'm watching that!"

But no, the anti-firsties don't care. They simply pull the five-minute rule - five minutes away, and I apparently "didn't want to watch anymore," acting all the time like they've been watching their show for at least 20 minutes now, and shouldn't have to change the channel because they're now "invested" in the plot.

"But I was here first!"

That doesn't matter to anti-firsties, though. They just look at you like you've spoken an ancient Egyptian dialect, and continue on with their woodcarving, deer hunting, and/or stockcar snorefests.

Thus begins the epic remote war.

Because, of course, I'm going to lunge at the remote rather than go straight to the television set to resolve my dilemma.

In the midst of the clawing and punching fray, my sixth sense begins to kick in - Grey's will return from those paid announcements from their sponsors soon.

It's panic time, as I begin to understand that grappling for the remote is useless. My only choice is to use any bargaining chip I have in the cable television arsenal.

It's time for some womanly prowess.

"If you let me watch the rest of Grey's, I swear I will never again make you watch a second of 'Charmed.' Ever."

As the thought of what Mr. Anti-firstie likes to refer to as "feeble women trying desperately to perform the physical feats that should be left to a man" crosses his mind, the remote is slowly relinquished unto my possession.

The third rule of firsties - firsties may sometimes fail, but a woman's scorn is always victorious.

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Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.

http://www.atchisonglobeonline.com/

The Cuckoo Zone

A few months ago I coined my very own phrase. This came during the mad rush of the presidential election. I was deep in thought, pondering on the state of things, when it suddenly came to me.

"They are so busy celebrating a win, they have yet to realize they lost."

Unfortunately, my little quote not only applies to my political arch nemeses, but to a broad spectrum of people - people we all encounter on a daily basis.

Which brings me to my point - there are way too many people out there that have no idea what they are talking about.

Everybody knows one - a friend, an in-law, maybe even a co-worker. And I know you do the same thing I do when they get started. While simultaneously listening to their bucket of crazy and contemplating your own retaliation, your hands tremble, heartbeat picks up, breathing stops, and you clench your jaws to avoid sighing as loudly as possible, and all you can hear in your mind is this high-pitched screaming.

Oh yes, the inner monologue scream. And you're just hoping your face doesn't reflect your thoughts during this private screaming session.

Of course you don't want to listen, but it's like a train wreck. You won't go to another room, or anything else, simply because you feel this morbid desire to rant to someone - anyone - about what idiotic things they said after they are gone.

Even if by third or fourth person, when I hear about someone saying something that makes absolutely no sense, I can't keep my composure.

"So you're telling me that he said you can get cancer if a dog licks you because canine saliva has fecal toxins in it? Are you kidding me right now?"

The worst part is, you can't correct these people. They won't have it.

You could argue to the death, and they will still be 100-percent certain that this person, who has done no research whatsoever, is a reliable source.

"Well, I just don't think he'd lie about something like that."

No, probably not. He's probably just an idiot.

And that's what gets me. These people are so satisfied with themselves, because they think they look intelligent, or feel they've given you vital information, that they won't yield to the possibility that their information could be misguided, or - shock of all shocks - wrong.

You could resurrect Jesus and ask him to put the final nail in evolution's coffin, and they'd still say, "Well, I just don't know. It made sense to me."

Well, Britney Spears appears to be a good mother at times, but that doesn't mean I just allow her to dupe me so unceremoniously.

So, in honor of my New Year's resolution, I vow not to argue. I promise not to correct. Because, after all, it's useless.

When they are lost in smugness over their "obvious" win, just smile, and always remember to keep your wits about you when they start their crazy. As my good friend, Ron Burgundy said once, while arguing over the origin of a certain city name: "Agree to disagree."

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Katy Blair is the Globe associate editor and can be reached at 367-0583 Ext. 210 or katyblair@npgco.com.

Romance on the rocks

Some couples just overdo it. Am I right? I mean, come on, you aren't that happy. Quit putting on a show.

I can pick out these couples the minute they walk in the room. The doors open in slow motion, a beam of light illuminating their smiling faces - and strangely enough - a breeze is ruffling their hair. It's the perfect entrance for the perfect couple.

It's not so grand, however, if you're within 50 feet of them.

All night, with the hugging and kissing and picturesque moments. Seriously?

Are you trying to tell me that you don't fight? You don't get aggravated with one another? It's just a picture-perfect relationship?

I don't buy it.

You're telling me that you don't mind him leaving clothes all over the floor? You like it when he ignores you while he's watching football?

You don't even care that he pretends the dishwasher is a foreign object that he's incapable of ever understanding?

Of course you do.

And don't even try it - I know you're tired of hearing her complain about everything. You're trying to relax, watch a little TV, and she just keeps walking in front of you, back and forth, and when you hear the vacuum start up, you can't help but growl in discontent. Couldn't she clean the house in half an hour, when your beloved Family Guy is over?

It's just impossible to be Cinderella and Prince Charming all the time. You're going to squabble about the dishes, and the trash ... and the kids, bills, money, cars, loans, bills, working late, forgetting anniversaries - did I forget bills?

You aren't fooling anyone with that, "I don't have a care in the world" play you put on. The rest of us that are putting up with someone's bad habits can see right through your charade.

For instance, while you're having a nice dinner together, I know you would like to strangle him when he begins the empty wallet routine.

"I don't know ... filet mignon is, like, 20 bucks an ounce."

And when the waiter smiles at her as he sets down her drink, and she smiles back, I know you're thinking: "You hussy!"

And when you catch him glaring at you and your new friend, I bet you can barely contain it.

"If I had a nickel for every time he got jealous when we went out ... well, I'd be able to afford the stupid steak."

Then when she glares back, I bet you're thinking, "you hussy!"

You may have the gift of painting on a good face, but I know in your mind, you're thinking of abandoning her at the restaurant.

You just want to jump in the car and screech off, leaving her and her "new lover" dumbfounded at the door. You even smile a little at the image of her shocked expression as you race away in her only transportation.

But you don't let it show. You bite your lip as the waiter smiles at her, and you open the door for her, no matter how much you'd like to shut it in her face.

And you - you'll look around the room and chat, rather than meet his glare, and you'll settle for Chicken Parmesan so your friends won't think your husband is a cheap jerk.

Why don't you give up this facade?

Give him a nice kick in the shins for glaring. Or ask her, "if you love the waiter so much, why don't you just marry him?"

Quit forcing a smile and kissing like that, when I know you want to go Hannibal Lecter on his face - just do it already.

"I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti..."

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Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 210, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Empty milk carton blues

I would call it the bottom blues.

Those times where a dear family member or friend is too lazy to throw away the empty milk carton. Or replace the toilet paper roll.

When they can't find it within themselves to cross the kitchen and throw away the Hostess Twinkie box after shoving the last one in their big mouth.

I don't think they are aware at the time how these actions bring them ever closer to being strangled - especially when they happen at the same time.

I'll set the scene - middle of the night, bladder on the verge of spontaneous combustion, so you scurry to the bathroom.

Plopping yourself on the toilet, you feel around for the toilet paper in the dark.

After several moments, you succeed, thus beginning the quest for the end of the roll. Turning it over and over again, the end finally falls, waving like a glorious bathroom banner.

Taking the piece in your hand, you begin to unravel but wait - is that tearing you hear?

Yes, the toilet paper roll is but one sheet. Someone has used it all and left but one little sheet.

You can't use one sheet; it's just not humanly possible. But you have to, at least to get up to search for more.

Pants down, slightly disoriented from the dark, you lean down to get into the vanity. There's usually a backup roll there.

But after you crack your head on the sink, it's just not worth it. Aggravated and annoyed, you ponder just who executed this atrocity. Oh well. Rub your head, pull up the pants and replace the toilet paper tomorrow.

Except now you're wide awake, and your stomach is the one complaining.

Ah! The twinkies, in the pantry, to the left, second shelf up. You remember because you were watching them go in, salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the sight of those lovely golden cakes with their delicious filling.

You need one badly, no matter the cost of calories. To the twinkies!

Slowly you pat the cabinet down, trying to find the handle in the dark. Anticipation rising, heart beating faster, hips and thighs screaming, "no," but your mind says "yes, just do it!"

You fumble around, smashing the bread down, knocking over boxes of mac and cheese, and - miracle of all miracles - you find the twinkie box.

Not sure which side is open, so you gingerly pull it out. You don't want to chance them sliding out and hitting the floor - if you smash that twinkie, you might as well have thrown it in a Dumpster. It's a disgrace to the snack cake world.

You find the open side, tip the box a little and eagerly stick out your hand to await your sweet, sweet prize - and nothing.

Is it stuck in there? Shake the box a little. Do you hear plastic? No. Shake the box some more. Anything? Shake it harder, you know there was one left. There has to be one left.

Finally, the stress starts to get to you. As you begin to realize there will be no twinkie tonight, the rage boils inside. First, the toilet paper, and now this. It's too much.

You feel hot all over and throw the box viciously, paying no mind to where it landed.

The search continues, and although you know there will be no satisfaction after a twinkie craving, you find the peanut butter.

Slightly sweet, it will do. So you rip out the silverware drawer with a wicked hope that it will clatter and wake someone up, and savagely tear out a spoon.

A few spoonfuls and you're done - it's so sticky, you can barely swallow - it just doesn't compare to a twinkie in all its glory.

But ignoring your rage over said twinkie incident, you decide a glass of milk will end the night well enough.

Over to the refrigerator you go, but your hopes are quickly dashed.

Someone has emptied the milk, leaving a pitiful tablespoon's amount at the bottom.

You know this isn't enough to take care of that peanut butter.

Your eye starts to twitch as you stare off down the hall, your mind whispering, "you know who it was."

Your hands, shaking with rage, crumble the milk carton handle as you conjure up ideas of torture.

Mindlessly dropping the carton, you walk down the hall horror movie-style, and all you can think about or hear is the stabbing music from "Pyscho" in your head.

"Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!"

The bottom blues have struck again.

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Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

'O' stands for Obvious

“Oh, you have to watch this part! This is good!”

Really? Here I am, sitting comfortably in my chair, eyes glued to the television, and you still have to tell me to watch the movie?

I don't understand the existence of these people, these over-anxious sharers, but make no mistake — they are a massive breed, taking over the general population.

In high school, my posse and I loving nicknamed these people “Chuck's,” after a certain excitable friend of ours who couldn't help but blurt out movie spoilers. Of course, many of his faux pas happened mid-movie.

I guarantee everyone has at least one Chuck in their life, relaying their “astute observations” at the most pointless moments.

Is it some sick excitement in taking away the surprise? Sure, the crazy guy with the machete is going to kill that bimbo — she's running away from town to escape him and what is now obviously her inevitable death. That's how those silly girls always die in horror flicks.

But now that you've told me something good will happen, I can just forget that little hope in the back of my mind that Barbie will somehow evade her ugly, misshapen murderer and prevail.

Nope, Barbie's going down as she would in any other pop culture film — mostly nude and falling constantly, as if her weak ankles have never experienced a thing called “running.”

I recall our dear friend pulling just this stunt once, proudly declaring the heroine's destiny was to die. Everyone in the room erupted into a chorus of, “Aww, Chuck! Why?!”

The true aftermath of the sin he had committed was to come, unfortunately — I believe it was Josh that began growling, an unearthly sound filled with torture and angst, as he sprang from the couch and wrapped his hands around poor Chuck's neck.

Chuck kept a watchful eye during movie night ever after.

But Chucks come in many shapes and sizes. Some simply enjoy inquiring about the obvious.

Here's my question for this Chuck: Honestly, if you can see what I'm doing, do you really need to ask me about it?

“Whatcha eatin there?”

“A unicorn.”

Is that what you want to hear? Because I can't glamorize a sandwich — it is what it is and everybody knows what it looks like.

I can't figure out just how to deal with these Chucks. Strangling a Movie Spoiler Chuck is one thing, but an Obvious Situation Chuck isn't the type to get derailed on a quest for knowledge.

In the end, a large portion of my responses to Obvious Situation Chuck are inevitably snarky — I just can't help myself.

“Are you on the phone?”

“No, I was just holding the phone on my ear here because I like the way it makes me look thin.”

A small part of me hopes that this answer will discourage any further questioning, but little do I know that this Chuck is filled with all the useless inquiries in the world.

Here's the big one, and I'll never understand why this question exists, unless purely to torture that poor soul on the receiving end: “Are you OK?”

Am I OK? Sure sure, of course I'm OK. I was just yanking the hair out of my head because I wanted that retro-mohawk look that my niece's Cabbage Patch doll got after she experimented with the scissors. And I launched my cell phone across the room because I hate hearing that I won the lottery, darn my good luck.

I'm not hyperventilating because your questions make me feel like banging my head against the wall until I black out.

No, Mr. Obvious, I'll be alright — bald — but alright.
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Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

40 minutes or it's free

I just want to get in and get out. Is that really so much to ask?

The simple truth is that I don't want to deal with long lines when I go shopping, especially for three items. I get impatient - glaring at the people holding up the line, glaring at the people behind me glaring at me like I should do something about the holdup, glaring at the nearest employee not doing anything to speed things up. Glaring at everyone in general.

I'm not even going to broach the issues surrounding the ratio of customers to employees working the registers. It's a battle lost for ages.

So what do they do to help the lines along? Enter Fast Lane Self Checkout!

Yeah, right - more like "You're going to be here a while checkout." I'll tell you why.

My recent shopping experience concluded with the same results. I walked around, desperately trying to figure out what I needed, and when all was done, I had a headache.

Who knew shopping could be so stressful for a woman?

So with my headache, I marched up to the checkout area, scanning the line situation. Of course, the few that were in operation were all backed up.

As I have become a self checkout enthusiast - proficient in the art of scanning bar codes, I might say - I headed straight for my area of expertise.

Sure, there were a few people waiting, but it's self checkout - I assumed that people in that line knew how to wrap things up quick-like.

Here's one problem: Not only do they let just anyone into self checkout, but they also let anything. "Fast Lane" doesn't mean buy half the store. The general rule of thumb is 20 items or less, that is it!

The woman attempting to use the scanner when I arrived had a full cart.

Obnoxious as that was, I held my composure and took my place in line. After about 15 minutes and a time-consuming issue trying to write a check at the self checkout, which doesn't process checks without employee involvement, Satan incarnate finally concluded her soccer mom-charade and left with a heaping cart.

The next woman stepped up, and I thought for sure she was going to bat. She looked as eager to leave the store as I did.

She went a little slow, but then again, my standards are probably a little high. I speed-check, no time to waste.

Was it toilet paper or paper towels? I can't remember, but she could not find that bar code. I mean, it was a polar bear in a blizzard to her.

So scan, scan and scan some more. I don't know how many times she swiped that package with no resounding beep to comfort her, or anyone else for that matter.

After about 10 attempts, I was ready to jump in and show her the bar code. Heck, I was ready to scan the rest of her cart, put her inside and push it out the doors, careening all the way to her car.

Too far, I know, but I felt insanity closing upon me. I was frantic inside. She just kept swiping.

Swipe. Swipe. How many times can a person do that before they realize it's not going to work?

I don't think she even had the bar code near the scanner, she was just scanning the bottom as if it had to be in that one location.

I think I was having an aneurysm when she finally got that paper scanned. She was happily sacking it, all proud that she finally overcame the machine, and I was clinging to the railing, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth.

Needless to say, a 40-minute wait at the Fast Lane Self Checkout spurred me to finish my business quickly.

I furiously scanned, sacked, swiped, punched in my PIN and ripped that receipt. Marriages in Hollywood have lasted longer than that checkout.

My advice for all of you amateurs trying to play with the big dogs - stay on the porch. Fast Lane Self Checkout is for the serious shoppers only. You slow them up, and you may just find your mugshot on the "Slow Shoppers Most Wanted" bulletin board.

I've been watching a lot of The Shield lately. You take your chances in that fast lane and get caught, well ... I wouldn't resist arrest if I were you.

That's no lie.

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Katy Blair, an Effingham native and Globe reporter, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Eardrums and underwear

Here's a little-known fact about me - I have a bad ear.

As a Marching Jayhawk, I spent four years in the stands of Memorial Stadium, screaming like an idiot, waving my trumpet about.

I also spent those four years between the drumline, a bunch of highly-talented, arrogant noisemakers, and a friend, who liked to scream into my ear while also convulsing and waving his trumpet about, after each and every yard we gained.

My ear was accosted one hot Saturday afternoon by Scott, who lost his composure after something I probably couldn't even explain, despite the many years of Dad trying to teach me the rules of men senselessly beating on each other.

I don't think I will ever fully understand why he says it was "fun" to punch each other at the bottom of a tackle pile.

Beyond that, I still don't understand the rules and my ear has never been the same since Scott's girlish squeal bounced off my eardrum- football has done me no good.

And yet, I watch it on television every year, enduring the confusion and trying to enjoy the spirit. But that bad ear haunts me.

The camera cuts to the "talking heads" and then to a commercial, so Dad and I will begin discussing a play someone just screwed up, badmouthing a player or two, until we're at the point of yelling and Mom has to bang on a pot to get our attention.

Meanwhile, I can feel this strange frustration slowly creep upon me. I'm starting to get a headache and I can feel my neck tense at the strain in my voice.

What could it be, you ask?

The commercials.

Everything is fine until the commercials come on. We're having a jolly time discussing plays, I'm learning things, it's all good.

Then all of a sudden, the dog runs from the room with his tail between his legs. I'm not surprised - Cuba Gooding Jr. is yelling at him about how he's wearing Michael Jordan's underwear.

He won't be coming back because now people obviously afflicted with Tourette's syndrome are yelling, "It's my money and I want it now!"

The truth of the matter is, they don't even have to be yelling in the commercial. The commercial itself is so loud, I can hear the silence - it's buzzing at me.

Conversation has gone from discussing plays to complaining about how loud the commercials are when the plays are over.

The worst thing is, we don't realize how loud we are talking until the game is almost back on.

There we are, sitting three feet apart, practically yelling over Cuba's voice. It's as frustrating as if he were jumping around in the room, waving his hand in my face and singing, "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you!"

I just feel like slapping him and shouting, "Shut up!" until I realize he's on the TV.

Sure, we can turn the volume down, but that requires a lot of planning ahead. Otherwise, we'll be blasted as soon as the green field disappears from the screen.

These days, we can't just enjoy the game. We have to be on guard.

Dad sits upright - remote in hand - ready to hit the mute button.

I watch intently, knowing the commercial is approaching, ready to cover my poor ear that's too sensitive to stand the decibels at which cavemen complain about their various injustices.

To make matters worse, it seems the television companies always pile on commercials near the end of a show, especially movies. For every 5 minutes of The Matrix, there are 20 minutes of loud commercials.

And why do the guys get all the good commercials? During 50 First Dates, you know you'll see at least one during every commercial break where a woman jumps into a lake because she's got the perfect tampon.

But for commercial breaks during testosterone-charged movies like The Matrix, there are action-packed, inventive commercials with tricked-out Mustangs recklessly engaged in off road, high-speed chases, and shower robots that meticulously shave your face.

I know that my boyfriend is praying there isn't an Axe commercial with gorgeous, half-naked women in it, or he'll feel my icy glare pierce his flesh from across the room as he watches blonde, busty well-groomed heathens tramp about.

So not only do I hate how loud the commercials are, but now I'm jealous, too.

What with commercial envy and Cuba constantly going on about those underwear, I can only think of one nagging, ever present complaint while watching television: "Loud noises!"

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Katy Blair is a Globe reporter and Effingham native. She can be reached at 376-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.