Today is Brought to You by the Letter "D"

I enjoy many things that begin with the letter "D".  Debbie Fritsch (that's my mom… hi, Mom!), Disney, dairy, Dchristmas… you get the idea.

But today is November 12th, which means I am going to talk about one "D" word in particular.  My dad.  Because November 12 is the birthday of James Patrick Fritsch!  Huzzah and glad tidings.

Now, my dad and I have a very special relationship.  And I mean special.  I'm pretty sure that if anyone monitored our Face Time conversations, they would be forced to institutionalize us.  At least we think we're funny.

Together, though, Dad and I are grand adventurers.  We have taken on London and Paris.  Our road trips across America are the things of legend.  Wanderlust is kind of what we do.  Looking back, though, there is probably one city where most of my fondest memories are set, especially those involving Dad.  And that city also begins with the letter "D".

And that's Duluth, Minnesota.

NO!  It's Detroit.  Duh.

Since moving away from Michigan, I have spent the last ten months telling people that I'm from Detroit and getting the response, "Well, that's a good place to move from."  And this statement would awake in me a truly unholy ball of rage and indignation that would convince most passersby that I am actually a redhead.  At first, my responses were a well-crafted succession of stuttering syllables, which sounded mostly like: N-no!  Detroit is.. well, yeah, we have some issues, b-but, you know it's actually really…  I mean… HOCKEY!!

Eloquent.  I know.

Since then, I have started to refine my tactics.  I now look the naysayer straight in the eye and ask them if they've ever BEEN to Detroit.  Most say no, and then I, with a stab at calmness and civility, explain to them the myriad museums, restaurants, clubs, venues, festivals, and markets that can be found in Detroit.  Some listen, and some are confused as to how it is legal to serve food in a burned out building.   Apparently some believe that there is NOTHING LEFT in Detroit.

After I started being articulate again, I began to wonder why I was so passionate about Detroit, and even it was legit for me to say I'm "from" Detroit.  I have never lived in Detroit, but I have definitely lived in Detroit.  There have been plenty of holidays, birthdays, and just because days spent in the Motor City.  I believe I have put in my time, and most of those hours were logged with Dad.

I think I get upset when people dump on Detroit because it feels like they are pissing all over some of my favorite memories and experiences.  Hey.  DON'T piss on my memories.  I like them.  It's as though they don't believe anything good can happen in Detroit, so it follows that most of my good times were not actually that great.  Skewed logic, you say?  Well, that's the way my mind works.  Wah wah.  And my memories are awesome.  Like me.  And my Dad.

So… do you know what it's like to wander around the Detroit Institute of Arts as a kid?  This was probably my Dad and my number one hang out.  The mummies, the suits of armor, the van Goghs, the Rivera murals, and rainbow hallway that lead to the food court.  There is this one spiral staircase that is still my favorite part of the entire museum, and Dad knew that no trip was ever complete until I went either up or down that staircase.  Well, he probably didn't know, but I reminded him.

Next up, Tiger Stadium.  Guys, I knew Tiger Stadium.  We were tight.  I had journeyed both into the men's bathroom (there was a trough) and onto the roof.  I had it perfectly timed out that I only had to pee when a major play was about to take place.  Dad loved it.  My talents are truly limitless.  To me, a trip to Tiger Stadium was all about trying to catch a fly ball, attempting to get a autograph from Cecil Fielder, and running up and down the GIANT ramp.  Not winning.  This was the 90's.  The Tigers were not winning.

When someone starts in with me about Detroit I wish I could open my skull and telepathically relay my experiences.  Like how I felt as an eight year old, when my dad took me to see my first professional show.  It was the first national tour of Beauty and the Beast, I wore a dress with roses all over it, and it played at the Masonic Temple.  It was beautiful.  Or know the excitement of watching your dad crossing the finish line at the end of the Detroit marathon.  Or spending your 16th birthday at a Red Wing's game.  Or getting dressed up to watch the Joffrey Ballet at the Opera House.  (Dad's response to ballet:  I like it.  Nobody talks.)

I could keep going.  I could talk about spending the day at work with Dad downtown.  I could talk about the Detroit Historical Museum, or the Verlander no-hitter at Comerica Park.  And I know Detroit is messed up.  And yes, I have stories of coming back to the car after a baseball game to find out the car has been broken into.  But honestly, the girl who does my hair just got her car stolen from outside her house.  She lives in a cute little suburb in Washington state.

So on this November 12th, I want everyone to know that I'm missing Dad and missing Detroit, and woe betide the next human who tries to tell me that Detroit is just not worth… well, anything.  Because I associate Detroit with Dad, and you don't want to get in that fight with me.  

RAGE

SO MUCH RAGE.

THE FRUIT FLIES.

Why are there fruit flies?  Really, what purpose do they server for the greater good?  I mean, you could ask the same thing about me, but I feel like I bring some sort of joy to people's lives.  Fruit flies bring joy to no one.  Only rage.

I would say that the fruit flies have inspired me to keep up on my dishes.  Yes, this is a good thing.  Now I always clean, or at least rinse, my dishes immediately after I have enjoyed my delicious fare.  The purpose of fruit flies is to make sure dishes are clean?  I would definitely hop on board with that... EXCEPT THERE ARE STILL FRUIT FLIES.  EVERYWHERE.  I don't get it.  Where do they come from?!?  And so quickly.  I think that's the part I don't get.  One day, no fruit flies.  The next day, ZILLIONS OF FRUIT FLIES.  You can tell I'm full of rage because I'm using so many capital letters.  You know what I don't say nearly enough?  "That's capital!"  You know, as an exclamation.  "What a capital idea!"  I think I'm going to integrate that into my daily vocabulary.  You know what isn't capital?  The fruit flies infestation of my apartment.

The thing is, fruit flies have great taste.  I say it's great because they have the same taste as me.  They love fruit (duh) like me, and coffee, and peanut butter, and all sorts of natural tasty things.  They're not going after highly processed food, and neither am I.  Why am I being punished for enjoying bananas and cherries?  I'm eating fresh, natural foods, why am I being sent a plague?!  And it's not like I'm leaving banana peel out and about, I put them in a sealed beg!  Ugh.

And you know what else?  My apartment used to smell like Lush and pancakes and sunshine.  It smelled like paradise every time I walked in the door.  But now it smells like apple cider vinegar and hate and dying fruit flies.  Because that is supposed to be one of the most effective ways to kill the little buggers.  Apple cider vinegar in a little dish.  Not the worst smell in the world, but still nothing compared to sunshine.  Also, there is a tiny fruit fly grave yard on top of my toaster over.  Ich.

I have to admit, though, I do feel pretty badass whenever I kill one.  Not by drowning, but because of mad ninja skills.  There are very few things as satisfying as clapping your hands in midair and actually squashing one of those little brutes.  Sometimes I still yell out, "I am Obama!" whenever I manage to get one.  Everyone remembers when that happened, right?  Obama killed a fly with his bare hands on television.  It was pretty epic.  And that's how I feel when I get a fruit fly.  Epic.  I even have one completely flattened on an index card.  It is a warning to the others.

The worst thing about the fruit flies?  When they land on me at night.  Once it happens, all I can feel are the fruit flies crawling all over me.

Glasses

I hate fake glasses.  I hate them.  Hate hate HATE.  Hate is a strong word, you say?  Good.  Because this feeling of dislike I have is a whopper.

Now, I've debated with myself whether or not I have a right to hate on fake glasses and the people who wear them.  (I guess I don't really hate the people who wear fake glasses, that's a bit unfair, but I definitely don't trust them.)  They can technically be considered an accessory, I suppose.  It's like wearing a belt when you don't actually need one, right?  Sure, when I'm wearing a belt with a pair or jeans or trousers, it's because they will fall down otherwise, but sometimes I wear a belt with a dress just because I like the way it looks.  It gives me a more defined waist and completes the ensemble.  Those people who wear suspenders AND belts, though?  Don't get me started.  That's a complete blog post in itself.  But do you see where I'm coming from?  Am I being too harsh?  I would hate to be a hypocrite because I condemned fake glasses and then went around in a superfluous belt.

And then I decided I don't care.  Call me out on whatever you want, but I will not back down on the issue of fake glasses.  True, I'm not a big fan of functionless accessories... at least on me.  Feel free to rock out all the jewelry you want, but I'm going to stick to my watches, shoes, scarves, clothes, and glasses.  I like things that are both fabulous and useful.  Hair flair kind of toes the line.  I like a good headband, but it doesn't actually do much.  Sometimes it aides in creating a certain hairstyle, so we're going to say it counts.

Back to faux glasses. Why are you wearing them?  A fashion statement, you say?  You think it looks "cool"?  When did this happen?  I thought that glasses were supposed to be the anti-cool.  Is this the hipsters' fault?  Is this all about irony?  Are you wearing cheap chunks of plastic on your face to make a point?  Well, if that's how it started, I'm pretty sure something went wrong.  Because there are plenty out there who are donning fake glasses who I'm sure the hipsters DO NOT want to claim.  Also, "I wear them because they make me look smarter" is not okay.  Just BE smarter, and you'll look smarter.  To me, wearing fake glasses seems really silly, thus negating any perceived IQ points.  Are you now asking if I think glasses are cool?  Of course I do, because mine are flippin' sweet.  And I rock those glasses because they help me see, and I bought rockin' glasses because people have to look at them.  Like my clothes, I want my glasses to reflect who I am.  What are fake glasses reflecting about you?  "Fake" is not something I would want as a describer, but that just me.

Am I bitter?  Maybe.  Maybe I'm tired of people asking me, "Are those real?" and "Do you actually need those?"  Maybe I'm pissed off that I had to endure years of playing sports in glasses, and that meant that those eyepieces were permanently askew from various collisions.  And that they're always fogging up or collecting rain water, and other little annoyances that only true glasses wearers know about.  I feel like I've paid my dues to wear the awesome specs I have today.  I've grown to love my glasses.  Maybe I just feel protective.  MAYBE I just want to keep people from being like me in a desperate attempt to hold on to my individuality.  Also, the people who wear contacts and THEN fake glasses?  Just go buy some glasses you like or wear the contacts.  You're the worst.

You know what fake glasses are kind of like?  Wearing fake braces on your teeth.