My Missing Gene

Posted on by
24

I don’t have the gene that makes me enjoy feeling scared.

My sister used to call me a titty-baby. On one hand, it’s one of the more hysterical names a person can be called—if you really think about it (and its possible origin). It’s also wholly inaccurate in this instance, because I wasn’t even nursed, so she jumped off from a faulty premise.

Now that she has a child and watches her filthy mouth, she calls me a fraid’y cat (probably a cuter version of scared’y cat). I accept both of these, even though I consider myself more in the precious puppy family than finicky cat family.

Regardless, what some call being a chicken, I just call being logical. Why on Earth would I knowingly scare myself? What do I gain from being startled, afraid or on edge?

No, sorry, I do not enjoy roller coasters. I don’t like the wretched anticipation I feel when I’m suffering through the long lines, only to climb into a bucket of death. I’d rather be doing just about anything else—picking weeds, fixing wifi issues, trying to understand a customer service rep.

titan um no

And I really … I mean REALLY … hate the click-click-click sound and feeling as the carts hitch themselves up the hill of horror. With every click, a new and exotic cuss word pops into my brain until I’ve strung together whole sentences of nothing but colorful language that would offend a sailor.

Along with that, I’m just thinking, “Why, why, why am I here doing this to myself? I hate this thing, I hate this place, I hate pedicures that hurt, I hate hearing 911 calls, I hate it when grown people say tush, I hate it when someone answers only 1 of my 3 questions in an email, I hate it when companies spell their name with a K when it should be a C.”

So yeah, I don’t enjoy roller coasters. I don’t actively seek out ways to feel frightened. I’ve been on many and will probably have to be on a few more during my life, but I won’t like it and it won’t be my idea. I’m not scared I’ll get injured or fall to my death—I just simply don’t enjoy feeling scared when I don’t have to.

I guess that’s why I don’t watch many, if any, scary movies. I don’t mind something that’s psychologically thrilling, but if a film is categorized as a horror movie or has possessed beings or shadows holding machetes, I’ll pass. I just have no desire to throw away two good hours actively terrifying myself and knowingly facilitating bad dreams.

I know I’m not the norm. I realize many people love all things scary. I’ve just decided I’m missing that thrill gene.

Side Note: In my opinion, it’s one of the better genes to be missing. About the only one I’d swap it out for is the one where I don’t hear all the horrific noises people make when they eat … or jingle their change, or tap their pencil repetitively, or type really loud like they’re doing a drum solo on their keyboard, or crackle their water bottle, or eat anything in the nut/carrot/apple family at work, or breathe. Oh dear, I just realized this could be its own blog post—it’ll be called “Misophonia and My Untimely Demise.”

Sometimes when I’m watching Amazing Race, one of the contestants will say, “Oh! Bungee jumping! I’ve always wanted to!” This, along with, “Which heels go with this dress?” are two things you’ll probably never hear me say. It has to be a gene that makes a person want to climb really high off safe ground, get harnessed up and plunge to possible death/certain whiplash. Yes, odds are that you’ll survive and have an adrenaline rush, but is it worth the risk?

scurred

I’m not saying these people are crazy, I’m just saying I don’t understand the appeal of putting your life in peril. It’s gotta be a DNA thing.

An adrenaline rush is no more appealing to me than, say, a delicious sandwich. I mean, it’s good, but I won’t risk heart palps or my life to get it.

Leaving work last week, I was overzealous in my descent of the stairs—and missed one. Thankfully, I landed safely on the next step; but, not before my life flashed before my eyes—and that was enough of a scare to last me a solid six months. Would an adrenaline addict think, “Whoa, Dude! I’m totally doing that again tomorrow!”?

They say that “perceived danger” is what draws adrenaline junkies to skydiving, haunted houses, swimming with sharks and driving at high speeds. But here is the thing—I perceive danger on a much smaller scale—like trying a new sushi roll, using a public toilet or skipping my daily multivitamin.

I’ve also heard that the aftereffects—the sense of relief knowing you’re safe—is the appealing part of being scared. But what I enjoy is already being safe … without a harness or helmet.

A person with the thrill gene might say, “I just feel so alive afterwards!” But I can eat a great meal, or take a hot shower, or put on a stellar concert in my car and feel alive. Actually, sometimes creating a really solid Excel document does the trick.

Truthfully, I love excitement and spontaneity. I even love things that could be dangerous if not handled responsibly—4 wheelers, snowmobiles, zip lines, rattlesnake roundups—I’m just not going to risk my life for an adrenaline rush or consciously create a “fight or flight” situation to get my blood pumping.

Between dealing with olympic-caliber passive aggressive co-workers and stressing over potential Nikki and Mariah catfights and wardrobe malfunctions involving 4 enormous breasts, I have more than enough excitement for the week.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

Posted on by
24

When it comes to good things happening for others, I’m just not the jealous type. I believe there is enough happiness and success to go around—and I enjoy rooting for people.

But, as a child, I do remember coveting one thing. Speed skates.

Growing up in a small town, it was not uncommon to spend one or two nights every weekend at the skating rink.

I was a pretty fast skater and rarely hesitated to step up to the line—when they paused whatever Rick James song they were playing—and announced racing heats. But try as I might, I never won my heat if it included kids from the Speed Skating Team.

I never considered—even for a second—that they were just faster. I knew in the deepest part of my gut that they won races because of one thing: Those Bad.To.The.Bone. speed skates.

heaven on wheels

heaven on wheels

The low profile ankle, the wide wheels, the low, flat stopper. Swoon.

I loved those types of skates with a fervor unmatched by anything under the sun. They not only looked incredible, but they were more stable than the high-sitting tan-colored abominations I rented from the desk—the jokes with the wheel bearings that hadn’t been lubricated for 91 years. The ones with the jacked up stoppers that were different heights from the right to the left—something a true speed skater would never accept.

look at this disaster

look at this disaster

Didn’t my parents know I needed proper gear to be a true speed skater? I guess not, because it wasn’t happening. They were expensive. And much to my surprise, we weren’t rolling in the dough.

I had no idea. My brother and sister and I thought we were rich. My parents provided for us in a way that left me confused about our wealth. But even at that, somehow, speed skates hadn’t made the list of immediate needs. Weirdly enough, soap and pork chops always came first.

Had my intense longing gone unnoticed? Had my older siblings’ oscillating interests schooled them to the temporary longings of my heart—training them to adeptly turn a blind eye to my yearning? I see no conceivable way they’d have had the foresight to know my living wouldn’t be made by speed skating.

I remember asking my mom if we could at least go look at some and price them out. I told her I’d never wanted anything more and could not fathom a complete existence apart from them.

Side Note: I can neither confirm nor deny that this was around the time I was voluntarily wearing ankle weights to meet my fitness goals. My attempts to build what I considered acceptable quad muscles for 12-yr old were, of course, thwarted by my supposedly-not-wealthy, see-into-the-future parents.

I felt I was being held back in my attempts to be more than the Saturday night limbo champ. Sure, I could limbo lower than anyone else at the skating rink. I’d hear people coo and squeal when I shrunk to the size of a baby panda on my way under the bar. But my expert limbo skills were simply a product of my size and natural ability to balance on 8 wheels. In my mind, it wasn’t a bonafide talent, so I didn’t deserve the accolades.

I wanted to race.

I wanted to run my bony little fingers along the rink as I went into the turn. I wanted to cross the finish line first and be going so fast that I could coast an entire victory lap without any effort, besides what it took to wave to my fans.

And even though I knew my full potential could not be realized in rented skates, I had to let my dream die. I entered fewer races, because I simply could not abide 2nd or 3rd place when it was no fault of my own. Occasionally I still raced just so the breeze could cool me off before the DJ announced “Couple Skate” and spun an intense Chicago love song.

My young boyfriend, Brandon West (same last name, but not related—it’s not that small of a town) would roll up to me with his hand out and I’d take a few laps with one eye on his sweet baby blues and one eye on his rad speed skates.

And as I belted out Hard Habit To Break in my head, it was unclear if I was thinking of Brandon or how to pick up the pieces of my wrecked speed skating dreams.

Do you know how many races I’d have won in these? Spoiler alert: ALL OF THEM.

Do you know how many races I’d have won in these? Spoiler alert: ALL OF THEM.

I already know my mom’s going to read this in Emmy-worthy mock-shock, feigning ignorance and swearing she had no clue about the depths of my obsession. She’ll say, “What? When was this? All you ever seemed to care about was snack money and the limbo! Sweetheart, if we’d only known, we’d have gotten them for you!” And to this, some (cough-cough) x-number of years later, I say, “Well-played, Mother, well-played.”

I’m Judging You

Posted on by
57

I’m judging you and really do feel a little bad about it.

I think we’ve all read articles, blog posts, status updates and tweets with commentary on the misuse of words like “your” and “you’re”. Some people say it’s their #1 pet peeve.

youhadme

My feelings are a bit different. I’ll paint you a picture:
When I’m reading along, imagine I’m actually strolling down a beautiful tree-lined street, joy in my heart, gratitude in the air. Then I come across, “Your not going to believe there response to my request”, and it’s like Demarcus Ware blind-siding me with a form tackle after he’s reached his maximum 40-yard dash speed—and he’s got his helmet on.

It’s more than a pet peeve or annoyance. I feel assaulted.

To the offenders: I’m judging you. I’d like to say, “I’m judging you and I’m NOT SORRY!”, but I am sorry. I know it’s unkind to wish you’d go play in traffic until you learn simple contractions. It’s not right or OK that I want your entire Facebook page to burst into flames when you can’t figure out the difference between “to” and “too”. So, I’m sorry.

If you write as your status update:
“You guys, I saw the most awful thing today. This sweet old lady offered to help this rough-looking guy pay for his groceries because he’d forgotten his wallet and then that son of a biscuit tried to jump her out in the parking lot and take her purse! Luckily some other guys took him down and everything was OK. What is this world coming too?!”

I’m out. You lost me. Consider yourself mentally roundhouse kicked into next week. I’m sorry.

You could save a precious litter of puppies (even shar peis) from being swept down a rushing river, but if you write about it by saying, “There precious wrinkly bodies were just being whisked away so quickly!” … I’m out. I’m now picturing you being the one swept away by the rapids. I said I’m sorry!

comeon

Without the basic understanding of simple contractions like your/you’re, their/they’re and its/it’s, you become Public Enemy Number One in my grammar world—and all kinds of things happen to you in my mind. Sshh, there-their, I’m not killing you, but you are absolutely the recipient of some bad luck. Some faves:

  • your child sleep-kicking you in your unprotected face at 3:00am
  • tripping with your arms full (and not on carpet)
  • not being able to pull the baskets apart at Target (with people watching and waiting)
  • hang nails (that you make worse because you can’t leave them alone)
  • dirt in your eyes (and under your contacts)
  • stubbed toes (that are so swift and forceful, you can’t even get oxygen to cuss)

I’m not finished. If you say “anyways”, we can’t be friends. I’m hesitant about this announcement because I’m fairly positive I have current friends who use “anyway” in its non-existent plural form, but it’s out of my hands and I have to cut you loose.

Uh oh. Light bulb. You’re also gone if you haven’t figured out lose vs. loose. This one takes years off my life.

Facebook status:
“Dear Cop Who Pulled Me Over, your sunglasses and night stick don’t make you that cool—you can loose the attitude.”

Nope. I’m now firmly Team Cool Cop and feel very good about your citation. I’m sorry. I wish I was a better person—but I’m not and you made me this way.

One Facebooker wanted to know why Fitbit hadn’t released their new Flex band, so she posted, “Seriously Fitbit, I’m loosing patients with you!” I’m sorry, are you a doctor? NO. And now I’m not only losing my patience with YOU, but I feel 9x the exasperation because 9 home skillets just “liked” your comment. Even if you’re equally upset with Fitbit, do you really want to be an accomplice to such offensive grammar indiscretions and incriminate yourself by “liking” the status update? Because that’s what you just did—you just endorsed a grammar catastrophe.

Self-Reporting 1:
I used the phrase “fixin’ to” until I was about 28. I was, for the most part, unaware that it was regional slang. Someone from another part of the country asked what it meant and I just stared—confused—thinking, “What do you mean what does it mean? How can you be an adult and not know the definition of ‘fixin’ to?”

I eventually tried to describe it by explaining that it’s akin to “preparing to” … I’m fixin’ to take a shower … I’m preparing to take a shower … and you prepare food and fix food … and the more I talked the more I realized it’s just really not a word, and I stopped using it. Not an easy task after 20-something years.

Self-Reporting 1.5:
Once in awhile it’ll fly out of my mouth when I’m excited during a conversation. It’s more slang than anything and I definitely do slang—which means I just unnecessarily self-reported.

Self-Reporting 2:
I’m also forever tripped up by past vs. passed. Try as I might to differentiate them by considering “time” vs. “distance” I still become disoriented and often opt for bypassing the word entirely. Inner Dialogue: A lot of time has past us by? A lot of time has passed us by? Hmm, I’m talking about time so I bet it’s past, but I’m also talking about distance so maybe it’s passed? It is past or passed? Why is this so hard? It’s like harder than math. I think it’s passed. Passed sounds right. But what if? Oh never mind, I’ll just say the years have flown by or something.

Then I walk away, beaten and defeated. I cheer myself up by remembering how good I am with were vs. we’re.

I self-report to say that I make mistakes all the time—most people do. But there is a difference in occasional misspellings or accidental grammar mishaps here and there and the consistent misuse of words that shouldn’t be problematic. If you can figure out Black Ops and know every word to every song in your iTunes library, you can get a handle on their, there and they’re.

embarrassed

My prayer:

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank you for the rain and the delicious recipes I find on Pinterest. Please bless this day and shield my eyes from improper punctuation and spelling. Please protect me from poor grammar online—especially when I get left-jabbed and uppercut by something like, “I should of known better.” Keep me from commenting that “should of” should be “should have”. Help me walk away from the travesty of “your so hot” comments on Justin Bieber’s Instagram pictures without swooping in with a lesson on contractions. But more than anything—if I do, in a weak moment, step in to make corrections—please help me to not misspell anything. Amen.”

Against All Odds

Posted on by
27

I have an irrational fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t think that, in and of itself, is irrational. It’s probably common to fear being wrongfully accused of a crime or the star of a tragic accident.

What makes my fear irrational is how specific it is:

I’m afraid a casting director will approach me about being the leading lady in an erectile dysfunction commercial.

bathshot

I’m guessing none of the women who auditioned before me had the right look. No, I’m not talking about their physical appearance. I’m saying, maybe none of them could pull off the “challenge accepted” look the woman gives back to her man once he realizes all systems are go.

You’ve seen the commercials—you know the look. They’re cooking together, he looks at her with such hope and she dips her head coyly, then looks up with: I’ve-Been-Such-A-Sweet-And-Patient-Partner-And-The-Payoff-Is-Finally-Here-And-Let’s-Not-Worry-That-The-Pasta-Has-Already-Come-To-A-Boil-It’s-A-Metaphor-For-Our-Love-And-I-Bet-It’ll-Turn-Itself-Off-Take-Me-Now.

uhohyall

Maybe the talent scout is spying on me from the cheese aisle—impressed by my discerning facial expressions as I select cucumbers for my latest spicy pickle recipe.

What if the offer is really good money? What would I do? Me, in a Levitra commercial? I fear this could happen on any given day. My list of West Elm must-haves is getting rather lengthy, so I’m pretty sure I’d accept the role.

But then my fear becomes—what if I’m really bad on the day we shoot and I hear, “Levitra commercial! Scene where she accepts the challenge! Take 92!”

The director (A-list, I’m sure) will bark, “NO! No, no, no, no! You look disgusted by his silent request! You’re supposed to be enthused about midday love. Get it together!”

I’ll be in over my head and want out, but I’ve already mentally spent my earnings so I’ll need to plow through.

And now the fears are multiplying because what if I finally nail my facial expressions and my lines and they ask me to star in hemorrhoid and gout ads? What if I’m offered the lead in a Shake Weight infomercial? How can I turn down all this money? That’s right, I can’t.

oprah

But if I accept all these roles, somewhere down the line, I’ll become the face of all-things-no-one-talks-about. I’ll be recognized everywhere I go, yet no one will ever want a picture or autograph. No one will tweet, “Totally eating dinner at the same place as @levitra_preparationH_girl! #lifeisgood #winning #rightplacerighttime”

I’ll be famous, but never on Ellen. A household face, but never host the Grammys. Men who take ED meds will give me suggestive looks while I’m pumping gas or getting a pickle at the movies. I’ll have a huge mansion but when someone new moves into the neighborhood, the neighbors will tell them, “Oh, don’t be too impressed with that—she got her money in less than reputable ways.” They’ll think I deal drugs and never let me coo at their babies or DJ their pool parties.

One day I’ll get the chance to explain how I earned my money, but it won’t matter. The women won’t want me around their husbands and the husbands will be grossed out by my hemorrhoids and gout. I can’t win. I’ll start trying to get work in JCPenney and Kellogg’s commercials. They always look beautiful and peaceful in those.

I’ll go to an audition and hear the director say to the producer, “That Shake Weight has made her arms look great, but do we really want the hemorrhoid girl selling fiber bars?”

I know it’s not normal to fear things that have such a slim chance of happening. But from a very young age, I had a fear that something rare would happen to me—something that universally prompted the response, “NO WAY! What are the chances?!”

For years, when I was young, I lived with the fear that I would be the next Virgin Mary. I was SURE I was going to become pregnant without doing anything that would cause such a condition—and no one would believe me. I imagined myself pleading with my parents to believe me and them saying, “Oh really. So God picked YOU out of 4 billion people?” And I’d say, “No, not 4 billion, you can’t count guys—but yeah, I guess He did pick me out of a lot. Do you really think I could make this up?”

My mom would say, “Yeah, we do. You’ve made up plenty. You swore to us the word “turd” was on your spelling list.” I would say, “The suspect word was “queer” and I just got confused. They both seemed out of bounds for 4th grade.”

In essence, I don’t really fear things like spiders or flying or closed spaces—I fear things that seem unlikely, uncommon and implausible. Because hundreds of thousands of times in this life, people have witnessed or experienced something they, “Never dreamed in a million years would happen.”

Those are the things I fear.

But on the flipside, it’s also what makes me believe I’ll probably win the lottery one day. I’m genuinely surprised every single time my numbers don’t match. Somehow, someway—in my life—something will happen to me that is extremely rare. I just know it. And I hope it’s more lottery and less Levitra.

Dream On

Posted on by
31

I have ridiculous dreams.

They’re vivid and memorable, but mostly insane. For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a very active dream life, recalling details with spectacular clarity.

I know people who don’t remember their dreams and don’t really understand how profoundly certain ones can affect you. They’ll listen to me describe a dream, making “Are you speaking English?” faces and reply, “You have weird dreams.” Guess what? That offers exactly NO comfort to me when I just told you I dreamed my nephew grew a vestigial tail an hour before his prom, leaving his mom scrambling to find a tailor specializing in those types of alterations.

I’ve learned the hard way not to go into great detail about a crazy dream until I first ask if they’re a dreamer. If they say, “No, I never remember my dreams” I say, “So, do you have any good kale recipes?” If they say, “Oh yeah, my dreams are insane” then I know I’m safely in the company of a like-minded dreamer who can appreciate hearing how I met the inventor of Pretzel Crisps at a pool party, where the pool had no water, but instead had Bill Clinton skate boarding through the deep end, wearing nothing but headphones and a toe ring.

I know people who want to learn how to master lucid dreaming for the sole purpose of hooking up with celebrities as they catch some zzz’s. But it was always more important to me to figure out how to wake myself up from bad dreams. I was forever falling off roller coasters, being chased by extremely bad guys and actually dying in a variety of ways. I’m not sure how, but finally I began to recognize a terrible dream when it was happening, and wake myself up. Not every time—I still ran into lots of knife-wielding hoodlums with ill-intent—but it got better.

To the experts who say we dream in black and white and die in real life if we die in a dream, I say NAY. I’ve been shot several times, seen the red blood and faded clear to my death … and here I am. Holla!

One particular dream I’ve never forgotten: I hailed a cab, he pulled over, I slid in. As soon as I did, the guy who was already in the backseat pulled out a silencer, put it to my temple and shot. It made this soft pphhffww sound. I felt no pain, but thought, “Uh-oh” as my head fell softly to the window. I fully knew I was a goner … but not before I prayed to God to bring comfort and peace to my loved ones.

For those of you feeling a little down right about now, you need to know something. I am blessed with the ability to dunk in my dreams. And I dunk HARD. It brings the crowd to its feet in unified jubilation to see this bad ass 5’6″ chick snagging alley oops out of thin air and throwing them down like I’m the spawn of Lebron (and with that unintentional rhyme, a spawn of Jay-Z, too—man this life is good).

I’ve also flown in my dreams. I’m one of the more fortunate ones who only have to flap a few times per mile, enabling me to enjoy the journey rather than feel like I’ve been to an all-day crossfit class. I rock a few big sweeping flaps and off I soar, high above the ground, wind in my birdlike face (my eyes are the same, but I have a beak—fortunately it’s a pretty spring salmon color, making me more special than a finch or sparrow).

I distinctly remember the first time I flew, my predominant thought was, “Oh my gosh, I’ll never pay for another flight in my life!” But on the flip side, if I never flew commercial again, I’d never have the joy hilarious horror of a gloved security guard frantically rubbing me down until he found the dangerous offender—my Fitbit pedometer—clipped to my bra.

So yeah, I get murdered sometimes, but I also get airborne a lot.

The market is flooded with studies, articles and websites dedicated to dream interpretation. But my dreams are often less “meaningful” and more just like my brain wanting to do “Mad Libs” based on my recent thoughts and experiences.

madlibs

Let me explain.

In a recent dream, I walked down a boardwalk.
I walked on a beautiful boardwalk on our latest vacation.

I saw my mom squatting in a cove of sand.
My mom was the last person I text before I fell asleep that night … and I, myself, was squatting by a cove of sand we saw while on vacation, watching a little crab moving around.

She pulled a baby seal out and his face was a real baby’s face.
I was watching and loving the baby seals around the coves on this trip … and actually just dream about babies a lot. (although usually I’m in the hospital for what I believe to be terminal stomach cancer, only to find out I’m actually pregnant, dilated to a 10 and confused as to how babies are made.)

She handed him to me and I cradled him but realized when she scooped him up, he got sand caked in his little throat, causing him to become still and start to die.
Recently, my mom had asked me if I’d heard about all the baby seals shoring up dead or malnourished in California and I’d also read a tweet from Anderson Cooper about the same phenomenon before I went to sleep.

The people walking next to me started telling me he was mine now and I needed to care for him and love him back to life.
I’d just had dinner with a friend who was talking about their journey with IVF, embryo transfer and embryo donation/adoption … and I told her I would never have a problem accepting and loving a baby I hadn’t created myself.

I started cradling and snuggling the baby seal boy—kissing his smooth head and giving him all the warmth and love I could transfer to his little body.
The day before, I’d come across a picture of my mom cuddling up her grandbaby who was wrapped like a burrito in one of those little towel robes.

He started coming back to life and stretching in my arms. He then opened his eyes, grinned and reached his little pointer finger up to touch my cheek but accidentally poked my eye.
Kellie Rasberry, from Kidd Kraddick in the Morning, recently told the story of their puppy trying to show her love and inadvertently scratching her eye.

Then I came to a gate at the pier and they wouldn’t let me by until I presented my credentials.
We’d been at the Indian Wells tennis tournament on vacation and I tried to get into a certain part of the stadium to take a picture and the guard asked for my credentials.

Someone said they’d take the baby from me while I pilfered through my bag, but they actually took him and put him back in the water where they thought he belonged.
A similar thought that crossed my mind as I heard about embryo adoption.

I finally got to the cove and spotted him happily swimming with colorful koi.
A brewery we visited on vacation had a bunch of koi in their fountain.

See? Mental, subconscious, dreamland Mad Libs. My mind piecing together a story from random activities and thoughts of the day.

Side Note: This doesn’t explain why my next dream consisted of me on a big yacht, watching my sister jet ski in our wake—doing tricks and flips and eventually sticking a perfect landing on the deck of the ship—as we all cheered uproariously, helped her out of her wetsuit and fed her fresh mango.

And of course I still have these typical anxiety dreams:

  • Realizing I’m at the end of semester and I have never been back to my math class since the first day.
  • Trying to text someone something important and my phone is either dead or changing each letter I type to an unwanted emoji.
  • Being back on my college basketball team—but every time I receive a pass and turn to shoot, the ball turns into a throw pillow or a book and I can’t set my hands right or get the proper rotation.
  • Not being able to find what I’m looking for—a loved one, a place, my phone, my camera, my clothes or my high school locker.

Hmm, reading through this has made me realize a couple of (now) apparent things.
1. I need to spend more time figuring out how to hook up with celebrities in my dreams.
2. I need a baby seal boy embryo … preferably from Stephen Curry and Alicia Keys.

dreambaby

Adventures In Moderation

Posted on by
43

I’m a big believer in moderation. I shy away from just about all extremes—this includes, but is not limited to—sports, music, food, politics and personal comfort.

Quick examples:
*I like Duke AND North Carolina men’s basketball (but Gonzaga is my team)
*I like Coke AND Pepsi (and Dr. Pepper, but it’s all Coke where I’m from)

“You wanna go get a Coke?”
“Yeah!”
(pull up to the drive-through)
“What kind of Coke do you want?”
“Dr. Pepper.”

*I like summer AND winter, sun AND snow
*I watch American Idol, X-Factor AND The Voice
*I like singer-songwriters AND rap/r&b/soul
*I work on a Mac AND PC

I like a little bit of a lot of things—even when they’re supposedly opposites or in competition. I rarely feel those pulls to the extremes. I do, of course, have some absolute NO’s on certain artists, politicians, etc. but I’m a fan of the “Promote what you love instead of bashing what you hate” mentality, so we will not discuss the UCONN Huskies or Redd’s Apple Ale commercials here.

no

I think one of the main reasons I happily live life in the middle is because I never want to utter the phrase, “And I’ve never been the same”. I live, somewhat, in fear of that notion.

When I hear enough people make similar statements about a particular thing, I’m ever-vigilant to avoid it.

“Derek got a flu shot in 2004 and he’s never been the same.”

Nope. About the 5th time I heard someone say that, I knew a flu shot wasn’t for me. I was already pretty sure, as I’m just not someone who gets sick often or catches other people’s illnesses (please don’t panic and tell me to knock on wood—I don’t even know what that means). Oh that’s right … and I hate sharp objects containing the flu virus puncturing my skin.

“Girl, Tara got her eyebrows waxed last year and they’ve never been the same.”

Nope. Having to paint on artificial eyebrows every morning would send me into a downward spiral. I don’t want something that’s already-manageable to place me in never-been-the-same territory.

“My aunt did a cleanse a couple of years ago and I swear, she’s never been the same.”

Nope. Cleanses sound logical and intriguing. I’ll hear something about a new or popular one and think, “Well I don’t like Helicobacter Pylori any more than the next person. Maybe I should do a cleanse.”

I’ll read and research and inevitably circle back to the original fear: what if a cleanse encourages my body to never work another day in its life? What if the cleanse entices my digestive system to go on a sabbatical and it has such a good time, it never comes back?

I never want to knowingly upset the natural balance of my body and life.

So I suppose this is where “moderation” walks in. I’ll do what I can to stay well. I’ll avoid licking children’s palms. I’ll stay on top of my mostly-behaving eyebrows and I’ll make sure I’m not eating too many Vienna sausages.

Yes, I’ll put a hurtin’ on some hot wings, mexican food and craft beer—but I’ll also eat tons of veggies, drink plenty of water and workout. I’m just not the kind of person who is “all or none”—to me, that’s a formula for unhappiness. I prefer balance.

Admittedly, however, when it comes to personal comfort, it’s a slippery slope. I’m pretty patient and I usually acclimate quickly—but not when I let my guard down.

MommyKitten

For instance, when I write in my home office in the winter, I sometimes turn on a little space heater to stay toasty. You wouldn’t believe how quickly I’m “freezing!” when I turn it off or step away. And yet, there is no way I’m freezing. I’m convinced that catering to those little comforts is a recipe for losing my acclimation prowess.

I don’t want to become dependent on anything I can’t always have (I’m looking at you, electric blanket).

Yet, here I am, fully admitting I don’t want to own a car without seat heaters. I’ve had them for years and fear the day I’m denied them will be the day I lose my will to live. Do you see how these personal comforts are slowly chipping away at my wherewithal potential?

Side Note: You can imagine how horrified I am at my unrelenting Chapstick addiction. Truly despondent.

Also, we lived with my sister and niece for several months when we were building our house. Part of that time, we were living through one of the hottest summers on record, so we slept with an oscillating fan every night. Well guess who “needs” her White Noise App (with accompanying oscillating fan noise) at night now? I disgust us.

At work I was offered a second monitor. I actually turned it down a few times, simply because I knew I would become dependent on it just about the time it was ripped from my loving arms. Cut to present day—I accepted it, we exchanged vows and I cannot imagine how I could possibly work without it. I’m deplorable.

Regardless of whether I stay the course or falter at times—allowing myself frivolous comforts—I know deep down that it’s best I stay strong and travel light, so the fall from personal comfort is more like being dropped on a Sealy Posture-Pedic than taking a header off a skyscraper.

Is it any wonder I’ve never tried drugs and rarely self-medicate? I don’t have an addictive personality, but I do have an, “Oh, this is really nice and I want it forever” personality. I know this. So I gladly live a life of moderation.

Maybe deep down I’m systematically preparing for—let’s just say “worse days ahead”. If an EMP or natural disaster occurs and we’re back to bare bones basics—having to brawl with others for water and squirrel meat—the last thing I want is to also be at my wit’s end over not having Dr. Pepper or weed.

Yes, I triple love my morning coffee, but if it was pulled from my line-up, I’d just be sad—not helpless. I’ve been a morning person way longer than I’ve been drinking coffee.

A wee bit of self-deprivation now to soften the blow later … is this weird logic? Maybe. But planning ahead is what got me into a Justin Timberlake club concert with only 1,000 other fans. Case=closed.

jt2

Uniting In Fury

Posted on by
32

Things That Make Us Madder Than They Should:

Hangers Misbehaving
Disobedient hangers are instigators. You know when you’re swiping through shirts and an unchosen one slips off the hanger and falls to the ground? I always blame the hanger and become frustrated with its lack of commitment. I assume it hasn’t embraced its job or simply thinks it’s too good for the service industry.

Maybe it just wants “out of this dump”. But here is some news, Hot Shot … you’re a wire hanger, bought as a set of 10. You gotta crawl before you ball. Let’s start with shoring up your shirt-holding skills, then we’ll talk.

How about when two hangers get hung up with each other? When did this courtship start? I doubt this union is even legal in all states. Was there some hanger wedding I wasn’t invited to? I can see that invitation now:

“Come Hang With Us As We Celebrate Life in the Closet”

It’s maddening trying to get one down when it won’t let go of its friend. I get frustrated and want to show it who’s boss—but don’t—because I really can’t get it down.

I also have irrational anger towards hangers that swing out when I pull something off—and stay there, hitched up—not swinging back into place.

Why am I so mad? I normally come in peace.

TFeyAintMad

Getting Trapped In The Sheets
You know when you’re changing positions too carelessly while trying to get comfortable, and you somehow end up laying on top of the sheet … and you become trapped? You’ve tugged and writhed but you’re super stuck? Infuriating.

You’re a grown person who can lift a Fiat if needed—should a piece of fabric unravel you this way? Should we be this mad about pulling the sheet out from under our back? Isn’t it always made worse by a puzzled, unsupportive onlooker?
“What are you doing? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?! I’M TRAPPED!”

Your Purse Falling Off Your Shoulder
It’s happened to every person who’s carried a purse or bag on their shoulder. Your hands are full and you have to unlock a door or reach down for something and your purse aggressively slides off your shoulder—finding its resting place in the crook of your elbow—where it is NOT welcome. Enter: outrage.

Poor moms out there. Maybe you handle the fury better because your purse falls daily as you negotiate a baby carrier and backpacks. I’m curious though … when your child wants to hold your hand, doesn’t it automatically create an arm slide your purse can’t refuse? Does the purse ever just slide from your arm onto your child’s arm? Sweet, sweet victory.

“Hey, you wanna hold Mommy’s hand—and purse?”

The only time our anger is truly warranted over the purse slide is when it actually empties itself in public. All bets are off. Angry tears are legal here because now you have receipts, make up, coins and pens strewn about. You better believe those belongings get thrown back in and man-handled. You’ve never hated your lip balm or Ibuprofen with such fervor.

Leaving Your Glasses On When Pulling A Shirt Over Your Head, Causing Them To Become Askew
Maybe it’s just me. I only wear glasses for maybe an hour at night when I take my contacts out. But when some sort of apparel change leads them to the top of my head—or worse, they come completely off and get lost in the clothes—I actually feel true anger.

But why? I’m not blind. All I have to do is put them back like a civilized human being. So why does such a small thing awaken my normally non-existent temper?

It’s absurd! Imagine if someone saw your pursed lips and scowling face as you straightened your shirt and roughed up your glasses.
“You ok? You sure look mad.”
“Uh, YEAH. My glasses moved from the bridge of my nose.”

Cell Phones Dilemmas
These are only two of the many mobile phone annoyances in existence.

You know when a call drops—so you’re already irritated—but then you go to call the person back and it goes straight to voice mail, because they are also trying to call you back? Why is this so maddening? Please tell me I’m not the only one who wants finds this infrustriating (that’s a frustrating-infuriating word sandwich that I’m not ashamed of).

I don’t talk on my iPhone a lot, but when I do enter into a phone-talking relationship with someone, I troubleshoot that business right away.

“Look, if at any time we get cut off or the call drops, the rule is that the one who originally called, calls back. If you didn’t make the first call, don’t make the second.”

Next thing. You know when the other person is having phone issues and they can’t hear you (but you can still hear them), so they start saying your name really frantically? “Anna? Anna??! ANNA!!!” This just about does me in. Why so panicky? Do you think I got abducted? Let’s all just take a deep breath and follow call-back protocol.

Bad Drivers Who Aren’t Immediately Threatening Your Life
I really do understand being annoyed by bad drivers. But if it’s just something you’re watching from afar, you probably shouldn’t get as worked up as you do.

“Are you KIDDING me? Look at this joker just LIVING in the left lane?! UNREAL!”

Don’t you get so fired up watching a car weave in and out and pass from both sides way more than you think is appropriate or safe? Are you mentally harming that driver with your bare fists?

Yeah, I am, too. But should it really make us as mad as it does? I’ve passed people before who were not driving to my satisfaction, only to see they were talking on the phone—and it makes me 4x madder than I already was.

I think the problem with getting so mad at other drivers is that no one is innocent or without guilt. Even the best, most courteous drivers commit an occasional foul.

But I know, we’re still enraged to witness such highway lawlessness.

A Few Things We Have Every Right To Be Mad About:

A lost sneeze. It’s on its way, you’re welcoming it and clearing a path for its arrival and it crawls back up.
Come baaaaaack! Let me love you!

When the string of your iPod earbuds get hung up on something—violently ripping them from your ears.
That doorknob or armrest is now public enemy #1.

When you can’t get your home printer to print.
“Could somebody bring me my sledge hammer, please?”

When water runs UP your arm and into your sleeve.
You’re officially beaten and defeated. It’s a wrap.

Cyclist in the way of traffic. I know, I know—they have a right to the road, too. That has never stopped me from thinking things.
I have 3 choices here: wait patiently, speed by making as much noise as possible or … never mind—I’m too ashamed of my thoughts.

A cricket in the house … somewhere.
Cricket 1: You 0.