First Time for Everything

I’m short. No, like really short.

I’m 5-foot-1, just like I’ve been since seventh grade. So when my friend Lauren Drapes asked me to model in the Student Apparel Design Association “Lights, Camera, Fashion” show, I was a bit worried.

I spent last summer working with models on a daily basis. The models I met in New York City were the opposite of me. They were gorgeous, skinny, oddly perfect, graceful and (sometimes) pretty cool. I, however, am slightly dorky, built like a typical Latina, the opposite of perfect and clumsy as heck.

I didn’t really think I was model material. But I did it anyway.

I showed up to the Lansing Center with my modelesque best friend, Morgan Wilson. Morgan is 5-foot-11, weighs as much as I do and has legs for miles. When I walk next to her I feel a lot like I did in New York – the assistant next to the gorgeous model. How was I going to walk behind this in a real fashion show?

Let’s just say it required a lot of make-up and a lot of confidence. The “normal me” and the “model me” are much, much different. It’s like Beyoncé and Sasha Fierce . I needed to find my inner Sasha Fierce, and she required big hair and lots of bright yellow eye shadow.

After getting fitted in an alpaca-fur bodice (Lauren based her line off the film Napoleon Dynamite), I pulled on a huge, poufy short green skirt. I looked like a reject from a box of Betsey Johnson leftovers, but I told myself I could make it work.

Wrong – I walked on stage, and I walked too fast. I tried to be confident, but I’m pretty sure I ended up looking at the ground like an idiot. I was a great big ball of struggle.

I’m not sure what made me choke on the runway. You’d think after all the hours I spent watching fashion shows on my computer, I would be able to not suck at walking myself.

So, I developed a theory. Why do they have tall models? Because runways are long. I have to take two steps to cover their one, meaning I have to walk faster to keep up with the music. More or less, I’ve begun making up excuses as to why I sucked.

Well, I must not have sucked that much, since Lauren asked me to do the show again for her next year. In the meantime, hopefully I can freshen up my walk and grow about 9 inches in the process.

I wonder if I still have the phone number of Myf Shepherd anywhere…

Bay City, Mich. — Up here in Bay City, the St. Patrick’s Day Parade is no joke.

More than 60,000 people flood the city to watch the more than 130 entries waddle down Center Avenue, Bay City’s most historic and charming street. When I first found out I would be reporting on the parade, I immediately decided to take on a mission: I was going to be on a float.

I’d never been in a parade before, let alone a parade that people actually took seriously. The last parade I attended was the Gay Pride Parade in New York City last summer — a six-hour long extravaganza, where it poured rain and I loved every moment of it. Sandwiched between flamboyant New Yorkers on Gay Street, it was the most fun I’d had in years. Not even rain could stop it.

Now, the Bay City St. Pat’s Parade was nothing like that. Virtually, nothing like that.

This parade had babies and dogs and beauty queens (not that the Gay Pride Parade didn’t have its fair share of those, boys and girls) and old men and old women — and a whole lot of green. When I showed up on the scene, I immediately encountered a dog, Buddy the Airedale Terrier, clad in the festive color. Literally. His owners dyed him with Kool-Aid. Oh, Bay City.

Walking down the street with the parade entrants, St. Patrick’s Day Parade Association publicist Brian Krause asked me if I wanted to hop on a float. Um, yes.

I was escorted to the most patriotic float of all — the Bay City Fireworks Festival float. If there’s two things Bay City does big, it’s St. Patrick’s Day and the Fourth of July. I climbed a ladder onto the float, where I sat next to Fourth of July beauty queens, clad in their fur coats, tiaras propped atop their heads. Coming off four hours sleep, I looked like a Ford Taurus compared to their Maserati Granturismos. (Me = fail.)

I was pumped that I had accomplished my mission to be on the float. As the old Ford van puttered down the street with its roof cut off, decorated to the nines with American flags and American banners and well, everything American (which was probably all made in China to begin with), the pageant executive director Kim Schwartz informed me that I had to wave. Wave on a float? Like a beauty queen? Yeah, right, I’m too cool for that. Or so I thought.

I dare you to try not to smile at people taking pictures of you on their cell phones (not sure what they do with those pictures, but oh well), toddlers jumping up and down waiting for you to acknowledge them (while I think “Please, don’t run out in front of this float, please”), and even old grannies pick up their wrinkly hands and throw you a wave.

It is literally impossible not to wave at these people. Sure, it’s silly, and you feel a bit foolish at first, but once you get past that, it’s impossible to stop. I waved at everyone. If you weren’t waving, I was going to make you wave.

There was no rain at this parade. However, there was 38-degree weather, making sitting atop a moving float a chilly experience. My bare hands stung, but I continued to wave, despite feeling like I was chilling in the Himalayas with no gloves.

It was worth freezing to be part of the parade. It was a blast, the people were great, and my pageant wave is perfected. While the Gay Pride Parade was a massive production, the quaint, yet bold style of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade was unique to the small city. This town is great. It’s full of spirit, it’s passionate, and it has some of the greatest people I’ve ever met.

It’s the real City. Take that, Whitney Port .

Bay City, Mich. – When I decided to give up shopping for Lent, I realized I needed another hobby to occupy my time.

So after canceling out the usual collegetime consumers, I decided that musical talent needed to be my central topic of improvement.

I played the flute from fifth until eighth grade. I quit when being in band meant wearing ugly uniforms and marching around on a football field. My flute still sits in a closet at my parents’ house. Her name was “Penelope” and I was fourth chair out of something like 17 flute players.

But, frankly, I really didn’t try very hard to be good at the flute. In fact, I was really pretty apathetic. And those American Pie jokes really got old fast.

But for the past few years, I’ve looked adoringly at those who can play the acoustic guitar. It sounds great, it’s versatile, popular, and, well, almost a little bit glamorous.

So, I decided, I was going to buy myself an acoustic guitar.

After some research and advice from a co-worker here at the Bay City Times, I was informed I needed a Baby Taylor. At 5-foot-1, I’m positive I have the smallest hands of anyone I know, so a smaller guitar was necessary. I stepped into Invisions Musiq, a locally owned music shop in Midland. The owner, Mark, is one of those really, really cool dudes who has copious amounts of musical talent and is also super friendly.

And there it was on the wall. Bright blue, smaller in stature, and hidden on the wall like one of those gems in a Webkinz game (Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Webkinz are legit).

At that moment, I forgot all the advice I’d heard about what kind of guitar to get.

It was like being in a bar with a bunch of boring men that your parents would love, but in the corner is a gorgeous, rich, rock star type who nearly resembles Russell Brand in the best way possible. You like his obnoxious hair and you like that he stands out, and you don’t care if his voice is annoying and you don’t care if he smokes a pack a day. He’s beautiful, and you need him.

This guitar was that man. And he was going to be mine.

Sure, the guitar was made by Crestwood, a company I’d never heard of. But it was like unearthing the Jumanji game from underground – it was so notable, and although I wasn’t really sure why, I wanted it.

A few hundred dollars later, I had my guitar. The gorgeous blue instrument nearly glows in color, and is now topped off with a lightning-bolt emblazoned guitar strap. All my picks match, and my bare guitar case yearns for stickers.

After taking the guitar home, I spent the next couple hours looking up songs on YouTube … I’d learn a few chords, get frustrated, and move on to a new one. So far, I’m best at “Love Story” by Taylor Swift – which I probably shouldn’t admit.

But I’ve found that having a guitar is a bit like having a new puppy. I’m here at work right now, and all I can think about is how I’d rather be at home playing my guitar. I want to be good, and I want to know obscure songs that I can jam out to with my friends. I can’t do any of this while I’m at work and that sucks. Boo.

I’m curious what songs are easy to play for beginners, so if anyone has any suggestions, I’m all ears.

Share your song suggestions with blogger Thea Neal by posting a comment here, or by e-mailing her at nealthea@msu.edu .

Midland, Mich. — OK, first of all, why isn’t tennis more popular?

I feel as if tennis is one of those die-hard sports that is extremely huge to those who love it, but is virtually unknown to those who don’t. Tennis is exciting, it’s great to watch in person, and the athleticism that tennis players have is considerable. It’s easy to understand, it’s fun to watch and it’s easily accessible.

I attended the Dow Corning Tennis Classic for a story about area kids seeing matches for free. The tournament has been a top stop for women’s professional tennis since 1989, and has hosted Maria Sharapova, Justine Henin and Anna Kournikova. Not to mention, the Midland Community Tennis Center is nice — Really nice. This is the kind of place you see in movies, complete with VIP rooms and hors d’oeuvres.

So why was the place empty?

Tickets during the 10 a.m. match that I attended were completely free, where the Czech Republic’s Lucie Hradecká, ranked 116 in the world, played Russia’s Ekaterina Ivanova, ranked 153 in the world.

Yet, for some reason, the only people watching were area middle-schoolers.

I understand that the match was in the morning on a Wednesday, when most people were working or in class, but still? Where are the stay-at-home moms? Where are the other schools that could easily take a field trip? Sure, it was raining outside, but the event was warm and indoors, so nix that excuse.

Just why weren’t more people there?

I’ll even take some blame for living in Midland 11 years and never attending the tournament. A lack of publicity could have to do with why the place was emptier than a bag of Cheetos after Britney Spears has at ‘em. I also had the opportunity to sit down and talk to doubles player Christina Fusano of Plymouth, Calif., and she called the event her absolute favorite tournament to go to. So where the heck were the people?!

But by the end of the match, I was actually kind of glad a lot of people weren’t there. You didn’t have to wade through the crowd like you do at football or baseball games — instead, you simply moseyed on out of the center and went home.

But with such awesome players, it’s flat-out stupid that the stands were virtually empty.

Tennis should really get the attention it deserves, and not just when Wimbledon is on.

The 2009 Dow Corning Tennis Classic runs through Sunday in Midland, Mich. Visit the tournament’s Web site for match details.

Bay City, Mich. — The cage fight crowd isn’t quite what I imagined.

You have your typical “good ol’ boys,” clad in plaid and Bud Light in hand, taking frequent smoke breaks outside. Then you have your “cage girls,” who walk around with their boobs hanging out and wearing Lucite stripper heels, trying to hit on the cage fighters who have more testosterone than Sylvester Stallone.

But there are also a few “normal” people at the event — screaming at the top of their lungs, waiting for the next fighter to make his opponent bleed.

Saturday, I went to Mount Clemens’ Emerald Theatre to watch the extreme fighter championship rock ’em-sock ’em robot show (the real title of the show was something equally ridiculous), since a friend of mine from the Bay City Times thought we should cover a local fighter.

After standing at will-call in the freezing cold (not quite Coast Guard cold, but freezing nonetheless) and waiting for our VIP tickets, I stepped into the theater’s ballroom and was immediately swept with a wave of shouts and XCC t-shirts. There were dozens of fighters of various sizes — from the guy who looked more like a runty beanpole to the 6-foot-5 Army veteran.

I interviewed our subject, and then mingled with the rest of the fighters in the preparation area. There were water bottles scattered everywhere, bloody towels laying on the ground (biohazard much?) and a random 10-year-old wandering around. Apparently taking your kid to a cage fight is OK these days? My parents missed that memo — and I’m kind of glad they did.

I moseyed over closer to the cage itself. The area reeked like sweat and glistened from the amount of perspiration that collected on the floor in between fights. I crouched as I watched dude after dude beat the living crap out of each other, wondering WHY THE HECK YOU WOULD WANT TO DO THAT.

I went back to the fighters’ preparation floor and flat-out asked one trainer just why he thinks cage fighting is, well, even legal.

Apparently, he’s heard the question a lot. He told me that boxing and high school football are much more brain damaging sports, but in cage fighting, if you get hurt, you can tag out immediately without bearing continuous hits to the head.

Hmm.

The other misconception about cage fighters is that they’re all testosterone-crazed ’roidheads who beat their girlfriends and work construction. I’ll be the first to admit I was totally wrong there.

Every cage fighter I met was a complete gentleman, had his life figured out and (to my knowledge) wasn’t some criminal on the loose. A lot of times, I admit, I have stereotypes about certain groups of people, and it’s a total relief to realize I’m wrong.

All in all, the event was just as violent as I thought it would be, but wasn’t as ridiculously weird as I expected.

Cage fighting has some of the most dedicated fans in the world, and like watching a soccer (futbol!) game in Argentina, being around so many high-energy people is always fun.

I don’t expect to attend another cage fight anytime soon, but I won’t completely write off everything associated with them.

Bay City, Mich. — I come from you as the one and only editorial intern at The Bay City Times, where I’m experiencing the finest that northeastern Michigan has to offer.

(Note: I, too, find it weird that Bay City, Mich., is considered “Northeast Michigan,” but apparently that’s the region it responds to. Strange, but true.)

Anyway, in true intern fashion, I was assigned my first outdoor assignment — Coast Guard ice rescue missions.

In case you missed that: ICE RESCUE. In case you missed that again, ICE. Ice = cold. Cold = not my friend. Coast Guard ice rescue missions = not my friends.

Or so I thought.

I showed up at the Coast Guard Station Saginaw River in Essexville at about 7:45 a.m. There are flocks of men in blue walking around outside, and I followed a couple of them into the station itself.

The inside of the station is nice, with pictures of lighthouses and boats on the walls. (Kind of makes sense.) But I was greeted when I walked inside — by three dogs. The dogs were red — yes, red — and easily the nicest canines I’ve come in contact with on a military location. Named Charity, Tucker and Holly, the three pups entertained me while I waited for the officer-in-charge to arrive.

The officer-in-charge is essentially the head honcho of the station. He gets to wear his fancy ribboned uniform, while everyone else tromps around in the blue suit, which kind of resembles a mechanic’s uniform. After an interview with the officer-in-charge, I was escorted by a rather dapper gentleman, who warned me to put some warm accessories on and head outside.

The Bay City Times requires me to never wear open-toed shoes, never wear jeans, avoid too-short dresses — essentially to always look businessy. This includes being on location. Therefore, my clothes consisted of black pants, boots and a coat. Luckily, I was smart enough to bring earmuffs, a scarf and gloves, becausw without those vital things I would have frozen. I would have been the ice rescue mission.

After putting on my warm duds, my dashing escort wouldn’t allow my reporter-self onto the ice, since the Coast Guard already had four different holes in the ice, which, to an untrained bozo like myself, could be a great place to fall in.

What resulted was me standing on the banks of the Saginaw River for two hours, talking to my escort and watching Coast Guardsmen jump into freezing cold water, then pull themselves out. The holes in the ice are actually carved with chainsaws, and sometimes, the seamen even see fish swimming in the hole.

Also, taking notes is a serious struggle with gloves on. After about 30 seconds, I tore ‘em off, exposing my fingers to numbing cold. It wasn’t until about 5 p.m. that night that my fingers actually stopped stinging.

Gotta love 20-degree Michigan weather. Er, northeastern Michigan weather.

While my experience was a rather chilly one, it made me truly appreciate the Coast Guard. Often overlooked, these guys and gals are essentially professional swimmers with great values. Never have I had so many doors open for me, nor have I been so often referred to as a “young lady.”

Any group of people who willingly throw themselves into dangerous water to save people are good in my book. Braving the frigid weather was definitely worth watching them at work.

Read Thea’s news article .

At noon on New Year’s Eve, I decided I wanted to spend the night in Toronto.

There are a few reasons people from Michigan go to Toronto. Here are a few:

1. To visit the CN Tower.
A tall building! Holy-moly. Make sure to stand on the glass floor! That’s important. Buy a kitsch key chain! Then go home. However, I’ve already been there when I was, oh, 12, so I don’t need to resurrect that trip any time soon.

2. To see a moose.
Canada is cold and up north, so they MUST have moose… meese… mooses? Toronto, a city with 2.8 million people, however does not. Nix the moose idea.

3. Because they’re underage and can’t legally drink in America, and therefore have to jump to somewhere where they can actually get into bars without sneaking through the backdoor like a creeper.
Bingo.

So on a whim, I hopped in my car and headed to the Canadian city to visit a friend, Lisa, who is one of my best friends from study abroad. The sassy Canadian redhead is like my sister from another mister (Spanish people don’t produce redheads typically), and is one of those people who will someday be in my wedding. She’s the yin to my yang.

The five-and-a-half-hour drive wasn’t too bad — minus a quick snowstorm on the way and a growing annoyance of the six CDs on rotate in the car. I finally arrived, I finally got to hug Lisa and I finally got to experience what Toronto’s nightlife has to offer on the most important night of the year — New Year’s Eve.

We went to a bar called The Boat, which is literally designed to resemble the interior of a, well, boat.

It’s the home of hipsters who were once scene kids who were once emo kids, complete with thick-framed glasses, long, shaggy coifs and, of course, boys in girl jeans. But what was different about these hipsters is that they were actually pretty cool.

I quickly made friends with the girl at the coat check (it was cold enough that the coat check was full, causing Lisa and I to chuck our peacoats in an unattended pile near the door), who rocked out to the obscure, random dance music playing. I’m used to being in clubs where all that is played is gangsta-rap or hip-hop, and to be able to dance my socks off to Jamiroquai and about 75 other bands I could never name was way more fun than I anticipated. The Boat is the ultimate indie bar, which just happens to welcome those of us who don’t have Mohawks.

The drinks were also delicious. I accomplished my goal of legal alcohol by sipping on rum and cokes for most of the night. It was after three drinks that I began dancing with a handsome boy. Newsflash to the men out there: I will not go into a bathroom with you, no matter how much rum I have ingested. I’m curious, who was the girl that was okay going into a dirty public bathroom to fool around? Does this girl like bacteria? Did she have low-self esteem? She must have had more rum than I did, because Handsome Boy was soon forced to find a new girl to dance with after I swiftly gave him the ol’ “As if.”

When Lisa and I finally decided to jet home, we stopped to get vendor hot dogs, which appropriately have the nickname “street meat.” After passing out in Lisa’s bed, I woke up the next morning with a killer headache. Luckily, due to my 20 years of age, I can’t get that headache again until August.

Thanks for a good one, Boat.

I didn’t want to go.

For my stepmom’s birthday, my dad scooped up some tickets via Craigslist to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert in December at The Palace of Auburn Hills. To my dismay, he had four tickets, meaning I’d have to tag along with my little sister and my parents.

Now, previously, I thought Trans-Siberian Orchestra was some music geek’s crush — a mesh of classical and rock music in the form of … Christmas songs? Really? A whole band devoted to Christmas songs? I thought it was bogus.

But after a snowy two-hour drive, I sat in our third-row floor (center, even) seats and I saw was wrong. The concert was actually good — great even. There were no Christmas trees or Santa appearances. But there was a whole lot of fire, a whole lot of guitar solos and a whole lot of middle-aged people rocking out.

To the guy behind me with the bad teeth: Way to howl, man. I’m sure you were even more hardcore in your prime — which was probably a good 15 years ago. That’s the thing about TSO fans — they’re like Jonas Brothers fans. They live, eat and breathe TSO year-round. Who cares if it’s not Christmas? Good thing there’s studio albums and compilation albums and videos and boxed sets and non-released tracks to listen to even in July.

I observed a few things that are apparently required to be a member of TSO. If you’re a guy, you have to have long, frizzy hair. Think Bret Michaels in the 1980s. If you’re a girl, you have to be ridiculously good-looking. Think MAXIM models. Oh, and you have to have God-like musical skills.

The perfect example of the hotness and sweet skills is Anna Phoebe — the London-based string director of TSO. Phoebe is prettier than most Playboy centerfolds and has more talent than most full orchestras. Phoebe may even be my second girl crush — after Jenny G, of course.

Sure, parts of the concert were kitsch. Really kitsch. (Do I need to listen to an hour-long narrated Christmas story across the world? Answer: No — Just play your music.) But for a group of old rockers, sprinkled with a few gorgeous ladies, I had way more fun than I expected to have.

Thanks, Dad. Next time I’ll make sure to bring you to an MGMT show.

In the past forever since I’ve updated last, I’ve experienced a few firsts. I cooked Mexican for 11 people (no food poisoning for anyone), I visited the Alumni Chapel, I managed to have a monstrous case of intoxicated word vomit (I’ll explain), and, oh yeah, I voted in my first presidential election.

Now, I’m sure most of you can relate to most of those, but I’m positive a lot of you can relate to word vomit. For those of you who are lucky enough to have never experienced the vomskies — don’t. What it entails is spewing words out of your mouth (or in my case, onto a keyboard) that shouldn’t be said, and also don’t need to be said.

My case of word vomit extends to a former fling, who, after a few too many on both of our behalves, seemed like the perfect person to talk to on a Saturday night.

Looking back on the situation, there was no reason for me to talk to him. Nilch, nada, zero. He isn’t that appealing, his humor is overrated, and he’s no James Franco. But he’s nice, wasn’t totally unfortunate looking (the million years ago that it happened), and seemed worthy of a “hello.”

The problem with alcohol is that what should be a “hello” turns into a “why didn’t we ever work out” which turns into a sad, pathetic mess of “this is our last semester in the same city, and we have to hang out more.”

There were drunken spills of details that shouldn’t have ever been brought up again, and there was the inevitable “do you miss us?” conversation.

And just when I thought I was done being emo, whiny, and too analytical, I just kept on spewing, hurling even, word vomit all over my computer screen. It’s one of those thoughts that makes me shake my head in pure disgust.

Now let’s note this: I am not the type of girl to sit around and mope over a guy. I get up, I get on, and I peace out. But for some reason, this boy is the north pole to my south pole magnet after too much to drink.

It’s the morning after a conversation like that where you try to tell yourself that it was just a friendly convo about life and classes — until you search your recent chats and find a few hundred lines about the past. A past that didn’t mean anything — a past that consisted of drunk, decent hook-ups and way too much emotion on my end. Ew.

A lot of my friends have had issues with this same epidemic. Whether it’s text messages or drunk voicemails or instant messages, there’s always a method of regret the next day. The best medicine to word vomit is to completely avoid any contact whatsoever. Trust me.

While said word vomit victim is still a good friend, I find it necessary to keep the peace. But next time I think spending a Saturday night pouting in front of my computer is a good idea, I’ll make sure to channel my energy into writing a blog for this instead. (Reporters note: I just read over the conversation again. Ughhh, I think I’m about to get sick for real this time … )

I have a girl crush.

She’s a slim blonde female. Her hair is nicely highlighted, and she wears a great pink shade of lipstick. Her clothes are prim and proper, and her shoes are quaint and appropriate. She’s powerful, influential and, well, kind of a hottie.

She’s Gov. Jennifer Granholm.

On Thursday, I got the chance to sit on a roundtable discussion with Jenni (I’m calling her “Jenni,” because, frankly, it makes us sound much closer than we actually are … sadly). I didn’t have the highest of hopes for the discussion to exactly woo me. Sure, I voted to re-elect her, but Jenni (from the Capitol block) is a much, much cooler lady in person. She’s probably the most well-articulated woman I’ve ever encountered in my life, she marches to the beat of her own drum (ignoring the requests of her security personnel at times), and she’s one of those women who in person is both intimidating and inspiring at the same time.

I had one other girl crush in my life, and it was much different than my crush on Jenni. The other lady was my belly dance instructor when I lived in Belgium. She was dark and exotic — Jenni is, um, neither (don’t take that personal Jenni, I think you’re a babe in your own blonde, fair ways). Unless you count Canadian as exotic, which, well, not so much.

Before any of you begin questioning my sexuality, I must clarify the difference between girl crushes and real crushes. These sorts of crushes vary from the usual romantic crushes in many ways. Sure, I would love to engage in deep conversation and long walks on the beach with this fine lady, but, alas, I don’t want to move to Canada and get married quite yet. Although, if she asked me, I might consider it. Sorry, boyfriend.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to tell Jenni about my undying love in person. Therefore, I’ve been reduced to my blog to get the word out on two things: 1.) Jennifer Granholm is a hot broad. 2.) Girl crushes are perfectly normal — and awesome. When it comes down to it, even if I’m not going to adopt Asian babies with Jenni, I’ll always respect her for being a great role model to females.

So post your girl crushes — we’ve all got them. And guys too — it’s totally cool to have a man crush. I once dated a guy who had it going for Simon Cowell. Nothing can be more embarrassing than that.