Holiday Detente

I have to admit that I am not chock full of holiday spirit yet. Mainly I'm prepping for the epic bouts of road rage that will be consuming me after Tuesday as my commute increases exponentially. This was definitely not what I had in mind for an early Christmas present.

I'm also sick and tired of hearing about some nonexistent war on Christmas. No one has declared war on Christmas. When people say Happy Holidays, they're not telling you to stuff your hand in a meat grinder; they're telling you that they wish you happiness. When did that become a bad thing? Yes, I personally celebrate Christmas. Even though more often than not I'm at a Unitarian Universalist service or spending time with extended family and canines, I still pray and I still return to the holiday traditions I was reared with, although fortunately not the continued consumption of my mother's inedible Tuna Tree that she served one hellish Christmas eve.

But I don't get upset if other people don't celebrate Christmas. I certainly don't get upset if they're not celebrating it because it's not a part of their faith or even if they just don't like Christmas. I can't understand how you would not like Christmas--the amount of crap you get to eat and drink PLUS really cheesy movies PLUS I actually like some of the music PLUS I usually get to see family and friends I haven't seen in a long time PLUS I get to ride in a Honda with Santa (played by my brother), driven by a clown (my sister), and crammed into the back with fellow elves (niece and nephew and friend). However, just because I can't understand why you wouldn't love Christmas doesn't mean I don't support someone's decision to believe or not believe what they choose.

That's what this country was founded on - not the idea that we all had to believe the same things, like the same things, do the same things. That would be craptastically boring. And authoritarian. You can have strong faith, express that faith, and still be respectful of others' rights to live their lives in accordance with their beliefs. It is only the weak who need to bring someone else down, to attack someone else to make themselves feel stronger, more justified, more righteous.

As part of the freelance ghost writing I've been doing I've been learning a lot about the presidents for this historical humor project. I learned last night that John Quincy Adams (himself a devout Unitarian minister) refused to be sworn in as president using a Bible. Not because he didn't believe or because he thought the Bible was wrong. He didn't use it because this country had been recently founded (he was only our 6th President) and he very well understood the importance of religious freedom in the U.S. He chose to be sworn in using a copy of the U.S. Constitution. To remind himself of audacious goals this country had, "to form a more perfect union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity."

So throughout this wonderful time of year, I'll keep in mind the real "reason for the season." Not to exclude others, become angry when they don't think or talk like me, and not to judge how other people live their lives. Jesus said "Love one another as I have loved you." I missed the part where that meant fly off into a spittle-spraying rage if someone doesn't say Merry Christmas.

For those of you who are still reading and haven't given up in disgust at my lack of holiday cheer, do not fear. All the decorations are coming out today - including the 2 foot tall doll of Bing Crosby, dressed as Santa, holding a pipe and  microphone, and crooning his little plastic heart out. And yes my nativity scene too. Because today I will kick off the Christmas season with one of the people responsible for the awesomesauce Bing doll as we watch crappy Christmas movies to our hearts' content (see Hapless Holidays for more of my obsession with shmaltzy holiday flicks), drink Fall Classic Cocktails (mmmmmmmm) and snuggle with Charlie.

Seeing the (Cocktail) Glass as Half-Full This Thanksgiving

As we draw near the consumption of massive amounts of food, oversharing of personal problems, imbibing copious bevvies, and festival of emotional scars that is known as Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for having my email hacked.

Don't get me wrong, it was a massive pain in the butt and really what I didn't need at the end of an 11 hr workday on Friday before being doomed to work all day on Saturday, but having my email hacked actually turned out to be one of those "It's a Wonderful Life" moments. Now before you think I've enjoyed way too much bourbon this evening, hear me out.

Let me set the scene. It is important to know that I have been having a massive self pity party and freakout over employment issues. With an imminent hellish commute looming over my head and what appears to be my complete inability to get anyone to actually consider me for employment that I think I would enjoy, I've been very woe-is-me-ish, not sleeping, anxiety ridden, and generally being a big whiny baby. And of course, eating my feelings and having my waistline and circumference of my ass pay the price. Then two things happened at the end of last week that reminded me of some of the many things I have to be thankful for: the retirement party for the best boss I've ever had and my email was hacked.

First, the retirement. Although I still find it difficult that he actually retired, my former boss actually ended what has been a spectacularly dedicated career. I'm really a bit of a dork about this man and drove myself to the brink of insanity and exhaustion to try to be worthy of his respect and trust. And this is despite the fact that he is the only man I've worked for or with who actually made me cry in his presence. I've never wanted to be "that girl" but somehow my lacrimal glands are tied to my emotions of anger and massive embarrassment. Thus, when he had me working like 11 days in a row and wanted me to try to call a meeting of people way more important than me the day before  Thanksgiving to tell them that he was throwing out everything they had written and doing the damn project himself and I meekly said that this would be next to impossible and probably not the best course of action, and he let loose, I got all weepy. Then, massively embarrassed, I turned bright red. That's the other "charming" thing I do - blush hideously red for prolonged amounts of time for what appear to be no reason whatsoever.

But that was one incident and the fact that I not only survived it but I'd like to think I managed to  make him never think twice about hiring me, makes me so happy that I was able to work for him not just once but twice. He taught me more than any other boss, mentor, or colleague and always took time to ask about my family and remember details of little stuff that you'd think someone that busy wouldn't have time for--all of these things make me very devoted to him. So when he retired, to see him recognized, to chat with him and his family again, and to get to see so many wonderful old colleagues and friends, this was a very moving experience. People I hadn't seen in ages were all in one room, gathered to honor the same man and take time out of busy days to recognize what he's given to his job and to his country. Plus there was free wine.

And that brings me to the hacking. So yeah, Friday totally sucked. I worked forever and it was doing stuff I didn't want to do, all with the knowledge I'd be back there again on Saturday and all for a job that is going to force me back into a commute that I sworn to give up. Then I find out my email had been hacked. Moment of truth, yes I had clicked on the link when I got an email from a friend that looked slightly suspicious but advertised itself as a news article on where to find the best jobs. I thought this was one of those moments where I'd read this article and suddenly figure out what I was going to do for the rest of my life. Or at least the next year or so.

I'm one of those people who never cleans out her closets, never throws away old theater programs or tickets from events, and certainly never cleans out her email contact list. Which means that when I clicked on that email and my email was hacked, a few hundred people --some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years and some of whom I never wanted to speak to again--all got the same fakeass article from "me." It was massively humiliating as when I looked at my contact list I did in fact find several insane men I dated (like the guy that I think was satanic and talked about poop, DJ 3-Way, and the cutest boy with the weirdest name - see Deal With the Devil, A Brief Period of Normalcy with a Side of Squeamishness, and They Don't Make Phone Booths Anymore for more details).

The thing is that it actually ended up being kinda cool. I talked to people I hadn't talked to in ages - like my first real boss (as in post-college first grown-up job) who moved south after retirement a few years ago. He always bought the best birthday cakes, laughed hysterically at those annoying hamster toys that danced when you squeezed their foot, and was just generally a really, really good guy. My college advisor also got in touch; she is the one who gave me the medieval helmet/incense burner that I still have and who inspired me to think about the lives and needs of peoples far beyond America's borders. Old colleagues and teammates who've moved far and wide and still call me by silly nicknames. Plus, the nicest guy who I dated ages ago--the one who gave me an Easter basket on our 2nd date and let me massacre his transmission trying to teach me to drive stick.

I highly recommend the experience. I mean, yeah of course it freaks me out and I'm still a little worried about my accounts and stuff, but it made me realize how rich my life has actually been. How many lives I've been blessed to be a part of, to share in their stories and have them share in mine.

It can be so easy to get wrapped up in our problems, to only see all the things we "have" to do, and wish that our lives were different. If this were an Olympic sport I'd have at least a silver medal. However, there are times where we get these little windows into our lives. Where we can see how all of the decisions and moments--good and not so good--how those make us who we are. Where we can step back and remember all the people who've wandered into and out of our lives--whether by choice or by fate--and be truly thankful for each and every one of them.

As you gather with family, friends, or however you choose to spend this Day of Thanks, please know that you are among the blessings that I count. Those of you who I get to see frequently, those I haven't seen in years, and those precious, precious ones who I won't see again my journey has come to an end--it is for you that I give thanks. Happy Thanksgiving to my dear, sweet friends and family. Even as we drive each other crazy, let's always bee grateful that at least we have company on the ride.

Now let's put on our eating pants and get down to business.

Are We There Yet?!?

If you're like me, you are unable to watch anything on TV other than old episodes of Alias (yes, I still have a crush on Michael Vartan) or Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (yes, I not-so-secretly hope that they will reunite, make over my wardrobe, house, and life and become my new best friends) because you are avoiding seeing ads and smear campaigns from political super PACs and are just fed up with the whole election. I mean seriously, we've had eleventy billion Republican primary debates, presidential and VP debates, town halls, and stump speeches galore, and now these ads.

The majority of the ads seem designed by people who believe that Americans are too wrapped up in their own lives to actually read about what a candidate stands for, the legislation and positions for which the candidate has advocated, or what a proposition actually says. These ads prey upon people's worst fears, promising doom and gloom if the opposition wins, and hoping that those same people won't do the slightest bit of research to see that the bulk of these ads are complete crap. Even the background music is cheesily ominous while the soundbites and slogans make it appear that the people disagreeing with the ads and positions aren't actual people at all. Instead, anyone who thinks differently is to be mocked and dismissed as ignorant.

I dearly hope they are wrong and that people actually take the time to read about all the various candidates and ballot measures before they head to the polls.

But here's the thing, the fact that I can even write about being fed up with the election makes me disappointed in myself. For how can I be fed up with democracy? Sure, it's messy and it doesn't always work out like I think it should but men and women fought and died for me to have the right  to sit here in my living room, ignoring robo-calls, whining about TV ads and complaining about lines at the polls. I need to remind myself that it wasn't that long ago that tenacious and driven women were imprisoned, disowned by their families, degraded and denigrated, and physically assaulted all to earn this right to vote that so many of us--myself included--take for granted.

So although I really want the people who have the same positions I do to be the ones that show up in larger numbers tomorrow, I really just want everyone who is able to vote to get off their butts and do so. Vote for the places where people aren't allowed to vote at all --whether it's because they have no electricity at their polling stations or they live in a country where their rights are ignored or repressed by their own governments. Vote because you can.

Voting is a right that comes with responsibilities. There are the responsibilities to educate yourself about the issues at hand and make the decision for yourself rather than letting someone make that decision for you. But what is less expressed is the responsibility to recognize that your fellow citizens have the right to vote as they choose and that their choices don't make them inherently bad people; they just have different preferences and priorities. They have as much right to their voice and their decision as you do. America is a richer nation because of the fact that we can express different opinions and believe different things. And although I may disagree vehemently with the political decisions of my neighbors, friends, or family, I would defend with my last breath their right to believe what they want and express that at the polls.

I was reminded of the dangers of demonizing people with different political convictions at service yesterday. The minister talked for a while about democracy, about the choices that were laid out before us, and about the need to respect our fellow citizens and not label them as "the other side." She quoted Alice Walker, saying "if you want to show your love for America, love Americans... Love us. We are the Flag."

She reminded us of the principles that we hold dear: the worth and dignity of every person; equality, justice, and compassion; accepting one another and encouraging each other in spiritual growth; freely and responsibly searching for truth and meaning in this life; the right of conscience and democratic processes; peace, liberty, and justice for our neighbors and beyond; and respect for the interdependence of this world.

I will do my best to remember these things as I watch the returns come in tomorrow night, biting my nails and probably sipping some very fine American bourbon whilst I tweet the night away and become alternately entertained or incensed by what I see on this fascinating thing called the Internet. I will be glad that it is finally over and so profoundly grateful that I was able to go into that booth and make my choices.

Now is Most Definitely the Time to PANIC

I'm thinking of suing all local and national "news" organizations. I've long been appalled by the litigious nature of our society but I fear I need to get on board because I have developed Persistent Anxiety News Induced Condition (P.A.N.I.C.). This is a new disease that I made up but I think I can make a strong case for my worsening state of hysteria being totally the fault of our 24/7 news cycle.

It wasn't bad enough that we've been in the midst of breathless and idiot "news" reporting on the Presidential campaign for the past 11 gazillion months (or so it feels). That alone had me wanting to alternately vomit or punch people in the face. Now, those of us on the East Coast have been subjected to nonstop coverage of the impending hurricane/frankenstorm/most-catastrophic-weather-event-of-our-time since about Thursday night.

First for the Presidential campaign coverage. I don't help myself in this at all as I am semi-addicted to the debates but seriously, when did all news organizations based in this country--possibly with the exception of The Atlantic and NPR--when did they all lose their minds? Gone are the days of actual thoughtful, intelligent reporting in favor of sound bites, mudslinging, and obnoxiously biased opinion pieces instead of actually covering anything of substance. When did sound bites become more important than actual ideas, policy, or action? What's even more disturbing is that sound bites are becoming shorter and shorter. I can't tell which came first: our ridiculously short attention spans or "news" agencies acting as if people can't pay attention to something that takes more than 9 seconds to explain.

The best thing I can think of to explain this phenomenon was the recent, aptly phrased but mistaken close caption of a journalist bemoaning the horrors of the "24/7 noose cycle;" I had the good fortune to view this a few weeks ago at the gym and almost fell off the elliptical in bouts of hysterical laughter. Noose cycle in that actual reporters who want to do something other than hype nonsense hang themselves out to dry and noose cycle in that the lack of truthful, well thought out reporting leaves us high and dry when we actually try to understand what is happening in our world.

Why the relative absence of real journalists is especially dangerous now is the overabundance of insanely biased, untruthful, and nauseating political ads that we can all thank Citizens United v. FEC for being especially heinous of late. A person could get whiplash from the whimsy of the sadistic TV ad programmer who decides to put the panicked ads for a candidate/issue back-to-back with even more panicked ads against a candidate/issue. If it weren't for sites like Project Smart Vote, voters would be left wandering the morass of lies and half-truths bogging down our political processes and be prone to choosing via the tried and true eeny-meeny-miney-mo method.

This news reporting has me heartily annoyed and eschewing most TV viewing but what has really put me over the top and pushed me over the edge is the coverage of Hurricane Sandy. I would already be totally nervous about this storm without the apocalyptic reporting on it as 1) I am a highly anxious individual, 2) the structural integrity of my roof is questionable, and 3) I spent the last major hurricane bailing out my sump pump for 8 hours whilst wearing an air cast and a headlamp (see This Boot Ain't Made for Running for the harrowing tale of how I spent Hurricane Irene).

Combine those three things with the way that local and national news has been covering Sandy and you'll see why I'm suffering from a serious case of P.A.N.I.C. and should immediately sue all news organizations and use the funds to build a hurricane proof house with multiple backup sump pumps and a roof to stand the test of time. Symptoms of P.A.N.I.C. include but are not limited to:

• holding actual conversations with your sump pump begging it to keep working
• running from floor to floor of your house to check to see if roof leaking or basement flooding
• increasing bourbon consumption to make it through an entire news program
• trying to reason with your dog about the length of the storm and the necessity of his pooping
• contemplating teaching your dog to use a toilet
• staring nervously outside of your window with an increasing sense of doom
• hiding the remote controls so that you are not tempted to give into continuous news reporting on the storm
• thinking about building a house-sized tarp and/or ark
• planning on leaving all material objects behind, taking dog, and moving to place free of weather related drama (although you have no idea where that may be as where there's not hurricanes, there are tornadoes, earthquakes, blizzards, etc.)

Now that I've gotten this rant out, I better go check on my sump pump and roof and heat up some food before I lose all power for the next 80 days and have to defend my store of granola and bottled water with my trusty Red Rider. As my better angels tell me to Keep Calm and Carry On, I wish you all safety, strength, dry socks, a faithful and flatulent-free furry friend to cuddle with, and a well-stocked bar.

Senior Dropouts

My mom just pulled my dad out of day care. That is a sentence I never thought I'd write but it's true. Not because I didn't think she'd yank him out at some point but more just because it's totally weird to be talking matter-of-factly about my dad being in day care.

It was only two days a week but for those two days we knew that he was not falling asleep in his recliner. We knew that he did multiple types of activities and was fed both breakfast and lunch. We don't really know if he liked it because the damn Alzheimer's makes those types of conversations impossible as he says everything is great no matter what you're talking about but can never give any details about what happened that day. But it was two days of non-sedentary action and interaction with other people.

The bus would pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the afternoon. I always wondered about that, about what that bus ride was like. When my mom would walk him down the driveway to meet the bus in the morning, a lot of times he would try to help her onto the bus too and would get a little confused when she didn't join him. She said it was really difficult to do and too difficult to get him up in the mornings and that it took too much out of her to keep this up. Sigh.

But up until this week, I imagined that this bus full of "active seniors" turned into some type of field trip where the seniors started acting like kids on a school bus. The troublemakers would be at the back of the bus, sticking gum under the seats and using curse words. I can't see my dad as a troublemaker at all but I can see him and his seatmate playing one of those stupid car games that are great on road trip. You know, like the license plate one or I Spy. Maybe my dad would check out some of the ladies; he has always been a boob man and I can easily see him trying to cop a feel or at least joking with his friend about the rack on the "girl" a few seats in front of them. I see the bus driver and their helper playing the role of chaperon and tortured school bus driver who keep yelling at those damn kids to shut up and sit down!

Or if it didn't get that raucous, I could easily see it turning into a singalong. My dad still loves to sing and really hams it up in more dramatic moments in a song. Anyway, so they'd get there and then I'm not sure exactly what happens. I know that once they had a luau and my dad had to wear a Hawaiian shirt. I bet on other days they did some sort of chair exercises and maybe a craft. Like summer camp for adults. And I liked the idea that him and his sister weren't too far apart, even though I knew they didn't combine the residents with the day care folks. I can just see them though at their luau, joking and probably eventually trying to get people to join them in a verse or two of "Harvest Moon."

I really don't think the problem with day care was that it was too much for my mom to get him out the door, although I can certainly see that played a part as when he is determined to sleep it is very difficult to get him to agree to do anything besides napping. But I think the main problem is that she can't be away from him. It might seem sweet but its always seemed a bit too extreme for me. I guess because I've always been single but it just seems like way too much togetherness. My ideal husband/boyfriend would live in the house next to me or even better, we would have a hugeass house and live in separate wings so we could have sufficient alone time.

Also, my mom has never been a "joiner" and when my dad retired 23 years ago, I think she became convinced that they should never ever be apart. Dad, on the other hand, used to be a "joiner." He joined the choir, a wood carving class, a cake decorating class, a group that prepared food for the homeless, tried his hand at writing children's book, and plenty of other things. She was less than thrilled at all these activities he did without her but she didn't want to join in. After a while, he dropped pretty much everything except the wood carving.

I know that when my mom is apart from my dad she worries about him and the fact that he can't really tell us about anything he did at day care when he gets back makes her think it's not worth it. I'm trying not to judge her decision too harshly as there's nothing I can really do to convince her otherwise and honestly I can't imagine what she's going through because although this hurts me too, I don't spend every moment with him.

Sometimes she drives me up the wall, with her weekly to monthly proclamations that she is moving to Montana, or telling people that we turned off her water and made her go down to the river with a bucket, or locking me out, or calling me at work with an emergency that turns out to be that they are almost out of hominy. But the truth is, I love that little nut. So I'm going to tamp down the "tough love" part of me that wants to march right over there and tell her to put on her big girl pants and let him spend time away from her. Instead, I'll take a breath, eat some Cinnamon Life cereal (along with Cap'n Crunch, it is my go to dinner when life seems chock full of suck), and plan a vigorous session of chair exercises when I spend Monday with the 'rents.

This is all far heavier than I normally like to post but it's what's in me tonight. Just be glad I didn't get into the fact that my parents still have a book called "Sex in the Great Outdoors" that for some reason persistently ends up displayed rather prominently in their living room. I guess it's not for nothing that there's six of us kids. Gah! Ok, now I want to poke my eyes out which is a sign that I need to call it a night.

There May Be Hope After All...At Least in Terms of Me Not Becoming Toothless in the Next Year

Admit it, you've had a hard time sleeping at nights because you're now worried about me grinding my teeth into nubs because of a thankless, demanding, bureaucratic job. Or at least you might have been mildly concerned about my dental health and stress levels if you read my post, Work Bites. Well, worry no more, my friends. Although my job is undoubtedly contributing to me aging before my time and sinking my health down the drain, my boss is admirably trying to reverse the ill effects of work on my teeth. What did I find on my desk today...

That's right, after she makes me an inspiring award for Best Dental Hygiene Ever, she gets me a life, or at least teeth saving device to save my remaining and dulled teeth.

This is not the only thing she has done to help improve my health and retain what little of my sanity is left. When I was sick, she actually made and brought me an enormous buttload of chicken and rice soup. It could have fed a family of four and it kept me well-stocked throughout a long and hideous cold/Mongolian deathflu. I don't think I've ever had a boss this kind. I consistently find that the people I get to work with and my immediate supervisors are the best thing about my job and one of the reasons when I keep going back in there despite the fact that my higher leadership often has me wondering if this isn't really a job, but a psychological experiment to see how much humans can take before they crack.

Alright, that is all. I need to get back to my gluttonous viewing of the debate. With the advent of Twitter and the presence of bourbon in my house, the debates are far too entertaining. Godspeed, good viewing, and don't forget to floss.

The Write Stuff

I have this gnawing feeling in my stomach that my book is complete crap. This feeling is likely responsible for my procrastination in actually finishing the thing; well, that along with my basic slothful nature. I've got more than 71,000 words and when I open it up to finish and just get 'er done, I think of something else I need to do. Like dusting. Or Words With Friends. Or working late and coming home with a lowered IQ and eyes that would rather be plucked out of my skull than look at a computer screen for another second.

The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!

Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and    stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)

I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.

There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).

Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).

This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.

Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.

Work Bites

I had the best time at the dentist's office today. Wait, stop. That can't be right...but it's true, I had the best time at the dentist's office. And not just because I got to leave work for the day to go to my appointment. But more on that later.

Why, you may ask, was it such a good visit? Well, I met the most fascinating dental hygienist ever. Before those of you who are my relatives get excited that this was a single man who will now sweep me off my feet (which would be easy because I was already off my feet, laying back in that reclining dental chair), think again. This hygienist was one of the funniest women I have ever met. She had me laughing almost the whole time which did make the cleaning a little tricky.

But she was mainly fascinating as she had only recently become a hygienist. Before then she worked building movie sets. She said it was super hectic and stressful and she was always traveling and wanted to be in one place for a while, so that's why she chose her new job. And before she built movie sets, she worked with Ringling Bros. Circus. Seriously.

Around the age of 30 she decided to go to school to become a dental hygienist. She said all the other students were like 19 years old, had never been outside of Western Maryland, and were planning on marrying immediately after dental school and pretty much staying in the same town forever. They were intrigued by her stories as she had been to so many places. On a trip to Pittsburgh, these youngsters were enthralled by "the big city" but said they just wanted to settle down and marry their boyfriends, most of whom they'd been dating since the 3rd grade and at least a few of whom were almost certainly making meth in their basements.

Although all the students got along, they just couldn't understand that Jean* had absolutely no intention of getting married and having kids. She wasn't anti-marriage or anti-kid, she just said she liked to sleep late and to travel and that she didn't want to be so-and-so's mom; she wanted to be herself. I admire her boldness. It's not that there still isn't some part of me that hopes that I'll still meet a guy who isn't a duke of douchebaggery and maybe have a kid or two. It's just that I'm becoming happier with my life as it is and not pining constantly over how I thought it should be. If I meet a decent guy, good. If I don't, that's still good.

Her career path sounded strange to me at first. How could someone go from working the circus to working movies to dental school?? I mean that just doesn't add up. But when I thought about it, it suddenly made so much sense. Jean* was hilarious, a natural storyteller/comedian, and in her new job she gets to come to work, meet lots of new people, and when those people are anxious or nervous about their visit--or even dreading the visit altogether--she gets to entertain them. How great is that? She makes them laugh when they expected to grimace. And that she had the audacity to so radically change her career, her life--that is incredibly impressive.

Now back to why I was so glad just to leave the office that I willingly ran to the dentist's office. It wasn't enough that today was the sort of day (or you could say it's been the same sort of day for like month after month) where I wanted to stab myself in the leg with a pen so I could leave the office and spend several weeks in a nice, relaxing hospital. Nooooo, I find out that work is literally destroying my health.

Alright, that may be a slight exaggeration. But as Jean* described it, I am apparently trying to eat my own head and have chewed off the porcelain on my crown from grinding my teeth constantly. She suggested that I might find a new career as someone who lifts weights by holding them between my teeth because I had an overdeveloped temporal muscle, particularly on my left side, from all the constant grinding.

Work probably isn't the only culprit in this marathon of stress that is running my teeth into the ground. I have to admit to those of you who haven't met me in real life that I have always been a tightly wound person who desperately wishes she was more laid back, so much so that she stresses out about how stressed she is. I had been trying to deal with these tendencies-o-mine through yoga, shortened commutes, exercise, volunteering and more fun time. Unfortunately, work has been insane with self-created problems, catastrophizing, and unreasonable expectations about what a human can actually accomplish in 8-11 hours a day. This means that I have missed all my yoga classes, am too tired to go to the gym more often than not, haven't volunteered at the nursing home since Charlie slipped a disc making Pets on Wheels a little trickier, oh and my commute is looking like it will soon return to a state of hellishness that I fear will drive me over the edge.

Hence, my teeth are now ground down to nubs. Ok, not nubs exactly but Jean* said I would starve if I were a vampire as I'd worn down my teeth so much.

How can I still be in a pretty decent mood and consider the dental visit a raging success? Well, because I almost peed myself laughing when I thought the dentist was referring to my vah-jay-jay when he asked "How are things downtown?" while looking at my lap. I'm pretty sure Jean* thought the same thing as we both looked horrified, surprised, and then snorted with laughter, particularly when we realized that he was referring to the Baltimore magazine resting on my knees.

And then to top off the visit, my "areas of concern" where the dentist thought they might need to do fillings on the last visit, well, this time he said that I was taking such good care of my teeth and gums that the cavities had kind of gone dormant or something and that we could hold off again and maybe even not need to do anything to them at all. I wanted some sort of award like "Best Dental Patient of the Year" and maybe a parade. Or at least a sticker. I did get the consolation prize of a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and a follow-up visit in six months.

And then the icing on the cake that was that during that one great hour today when I wasn't a stressed out maniac, I actually went to the gym and the loudspeaker played "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" when it usually plays crapass music that makes me want to vom.

It's the little things that make me happy. Meeting an interesting person, laughing so hard I almost bit off that dental pick thingy, being praised for my excellent oral hygiene, hearing They Might Be Giants when I expected club techno music. These things seem so small but they make me smile, albeit with award winning improved teeth that are ground down to nubs.

It's the little things that can make you miserable though too. The idiotic task with no guidance and unreasonable deadlines with no explanation of what the hell is happening. Computers freezing. Inbox overflowing. Realizing that even though you've been too busy to eat anything more for lunch than a quick yogurt at your desk that you've actually gained weight. In the scheme of life, those things are quite small but it can feel like drowning by inches in quicksand while mosquitoes bite you constantly.

What's the moral of this rambling post? Well, I think it's that I need to stop letting the bad little things that don't really matter stress me out to the point where I become a toothless migraine sufferer who has to put all her food in a blender. I need to put away the scale or at least decrease the amount of times I use it and the amount of control I give it over my feelings of self-worth. And I need to cherish all the little things that make me smile, appreciate them more, and enjoy them while they're happening instead of worrying what's ahead.

And of course that I need to make myself some sort of award (or maybe a tiara!!!) to proclaim myself as the Best Dental Patient of the Year. That is the moral of today's long-winded story. The end.

*Name has been changed.

Memories and Tiaras

At work today, one of my very young coworkers was talking about how 10 weeks is "like forever." I laughed at first as the older I get, the quicker time runs away from me. Further solidifying that idea, when I got home tonight, instead of writing articles on emotional affairs or unlocking the inner goddess, I procrastinated by going through some old pictures. That's when it truly hit me how quickly things can change.

Tomorrow would have been my cousin Dave's birthday. It has been eight months since he passed away, so young and far too, too early. I don't know why but tonight I decided to procrastinate work by looking through the beautiful film that my sister compiled of pictures throughout David's life, set to music chosen by her professional sound styling coordinator (that's me).

There's a picture in there from my 30th birthday party, only five short years ago. The picture shows not only Dave who was taken from us too early, but his mom--my ineffable, highly organized and totally wonderful Aunt Maggie--who's been gone for more than two years. It also shows my spunky and original Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge of the enduring bun (when I was small, I was convinced she was born with her hair that way and that gale force winds could not ruffle or disturb it), the same woman who could do the breaststroke without disturbing her hair or her jewels, suffered a stroke and now words come so difficult, when they flowed so much easier before.

The one from the picture who remains and is mostly unchanged from that sunny and funny day is my crazy, adorable, and maddening uncle, aka Unk. In the pic, he is using Aunt Maggie's head for a coaster and I'm pretty sure the picture was snapped just before she jabbed him in the gut. My dear, complicated Unk who now alternates between sweetly calling to check up on me and to lay on the guilt about when I'm stopping by next.

Five years doesn't seem like long enough of a time for all these things to have happened but that is how life is. Rather than feeling the loss though, I'm left with a bittersweet feeling of wanting to be grateful that I am blessed with the presence of a large, loud, and loving family. I had thought by the time I was my age I'd be surrounded by a family of my own. You know, the traditional nuclear type family with 2.4 kids, a husband, and SUV filled with soccer equipment. The thing is, I am surrounded by a family of my own. True, it is different than I imagined but although I have no children of my own to emotionally scar with bizarre nicknames and crazy fairy tales, I feel lucky to live so close to and be in such close contact with my family. We are there for each other in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. And death doesn't part us, it just makes it harder for those of us left behind to see the love coming down from the angels we have lost.

So, although  I dearly miss those we have lost either from death or losing them slowly to thieving illnesses like Alzheimer's disease, I will look at those pictures and remember the good times. Remember the fact that I still have the tiara that I wore that day at my party, proclaiming my 30-ness (and that I still wear when I clean the house sometimes and once accidentally while walking Charlie). Remember the crazy amount of sangria that we had that day and how a lot of the other memories are happy but blurry. Remember all of the other times and more than remember, I'll be ready to make more memories as we go. For although there are plenty of times when I would love to staple things to various family members' heads, I have to admit that I love those crazy people and wouldn't trade them for all the world.

Pesto, Relationships and Happiness

I overslept this morning, waking up groggy, slightly headachy, and seemingly incapable of rushing to make it to the Unitarian church I've been attending this summer. Instead of making it to the service, after walking Charlie I've been pondering three things: pesto, relationships, and happiness.

The last shall be first so let's talk about my current musings on happiness. I started re-reading the book The Geography of Bliss this week for a critical thinking class where we had to take an article or book and examine the arguments in said work and how the author made or did not make his or her case. All the other people in the class picked articles on information technology, military decisions, or the economy but I decided I wanted to examine the arguments that Eric Weiner sets forth in The Geography of Bliss to see what makes some places happier than others. I could tell the rest of the students thought I was a hippie, trippy liberal type but since I kind of am I didn't take it as an insult.

If you haven't read the book, I'd recommend it. And if you're a freak like me and can't read a good book just once, pick it up again. Weiner travels to a variety of countries to figure out why some peoples are happier than others and the findings are surprising. Happy countries include places like the Netherlands, Switzerland, Iceland, and Bhutan. America may be the home of the brave but sadly we rank in the lower end of the mid-range of most sociological studies into happiness. At least we beat out Moldova, Tanzania, and Rwanda I guess, but it still seems like we should be happier than we are.

The study of happiness is one of contradictions. Republicans are happier than democrats (go figure). People who are more tolerant are happier than the intolerant, but homogeneous nations are among the happiest on earth. People who attend church are happier than those that don't but secular nations are happier than religious nations. There is no link between happiness and suicide rates; Switzerland is highly rated in both. Married people are happier than singles (I lose out again) but people without children are happier than those with children.

The strongest argument that the author makes is that a person's happiness is intertwined with those around them; people are happiest when they are part of a vibrant and active community and when they trust one another. By some accounts, trust is the most important factor to happiness. That alone could seem to make singles lose out again accept that recent studies show that single people are actually more likely to be an active part of their communities than their married counterparts; singletons tend more towards civic activism and volunteerism, at least according to Eric Klinenberg when discussing the trend of increasing amounts of people choosing to live alone in his book, Going Solo.

So now for the pesto and relationships. I know about the first but apparently not the latter. I've just started doing some freelance article writing in an attempt to build up my resume in terms of writing and editing and to improve my writing overall (with the hopeful goal of finishing my book sometime in my lifetime). I've mainly been writing for a "dating and relationship expert" who is very nice but has me write things like why do men lose interest after the first few dates and how to get your man to commit. The last one I sent her, I actually thought was good. So I have to admit my pride was damaged a bit when she told me she needed something more practical--a step-by-step guide to help intelligent, attractive women to find a man, date him, and make it into a relationship.

Those who know me can appreciate the irony of me writing such an article as I can't remember the last time I actually had a successful relationship in the form of a boyfriend who wasn't a complete lunatic. I felt a little like a hypocrite and also a little nauseated, but I sat down and wrote the article and thought I did a pretty good job.

After seeing my client's recommendations though, I'm not sure that I can fix it to be what she wants. Because meeting a guy and having a relationship isn't like making pesto, which I did fairly easily this morning. My little container garden out back has been prolifically producing basil so I decided that this morning I had to make and freeze copious amounts of pesto. The steps to doing so are pretty easy: 1. Pick and wash 4 cups of basil leaves 2. Put basil in food processor along with 4-6 cloves of garlic, one-half cup of pine nuts, and one cup of olive oil. 3. Blend until smells delicious and is somewhat liquidy green wonderfulness. 4. Pour into ice cube tray to freeze so you have nice individual servings of pesto. 5. When you want to use, thaw and add in grated Parmesan cheese. Done.

I don't really think getting and keeping a relationship can be broken down into the same, neat little steps. If it can, I don't know what they are. I don't own the rights to any of the articles she buys from me but since she didn't buy this one, here's what I came up with. I'll mess around with it later today to try to get it to be what she wants, but I actually think what I had was probably the most practical steps I could have come up with that could be genuinely useful.

How to Get a Boyfriend

We like things totally spelled out these days: 8 ways to lose 10 pounds, 6 new hairstyles, 14 steps to financial success and 5 steps to building the perfect resume. It’s almost like following a recipe. Up front, recipes tell you exactly what you will need for ingredients, each individual step to get to the end result. Some even tell you the total amount of time that will be required to bake that perfect cake: 25 minutes preparation, 60 minutes baking time, 85 minutes overall.

If only things were that simple in getting a boyfriend. You know, something that said to mix up 1 cup of patience, 2 gallons of persistence, and a good dollop of a sense of humor; total time overall: 6 months. Unfortunately, even though men claim to be more logical and less emotion-driven than women, I haven’t found the perfect scientific method for getting that great boyfriend.

That being said, my years of dating experience have helped me develop a sort of formula to improve my chances for obtaining that mysterious and highly desirable prize of a boyfriend. This isn’t foolproof but I think that following some of these steps will improve your chances of ending up with a boyfriend.

Step 1: Get Your Act Together. This step is probably the most critical –if you don’t do this not only will you probably not get a good boyfriend, you’ll also not have the greatest time in your everyday life. You need to figure out who you are, what you want, what you need, and how you prioritize all the various elements that go into making up your life. If you don’t know who you are as an individual, you won’t be happy as part of a couple. I know far too many women whose identities are completely wrapped up in their husbands’ or boyfriends’ identities. These women end up being relationship chameleons, changing to reflect the habits and preferences of their partners rather than reflecting who they truly are.

Step 2: Put Your Best Foot Forward. If the first step is about getting the inner you in shape, step 2 deals with getting that outer you in shape too. No crash diets, plastic surgeries, or exorbitantly costly wardrobe changes are in order. But it is almost a universal truth that when you look better and are happier with your appearance, you are more confident and confidence attracts other people to you. I’m not talking about overconfidence or arrogance, but a decent amount of self-confidence goes a long way. So make sure you’re doing some sort of exercise you actually like, eating healthy, spend some time on your grooming, and put on something that makes you feel hot—not slutty or overly glamorous, but at least several notches up from sweats.

Step 3: Get Out There. I wish it were as easy as ordering up a boyfriend through a high-end catalog and having him delivered right to your door, but sadly if you don’t leave your house and go somewhere where prospective boyfriends hang out you’re probably going to stay single. Now you can try an online dating site—I have and as a result have met some great (and some awful) guys—but you have to eventually meet up in real life. If you haven’t gone the online route, I’d recommend joining a group that does something you’re interested in. Volunteer with an organization that helps build houses for the homeless and you might chat up a tall, dark and handsome stranger while installing siding. If you like kayaking, running, reading, cooking or whatever, there are tons of groups out there where you can actually meet men who share the same interests as you. I’d recommend something like that over heading out to your local bar.

Step 4: Listen More than You Talk and Be Open. When you’ve met that guy that you think could make good boyfriend material, ask him about himself and really listen to the answers. Figure out early on if this is a guy that you actually could want to spend time with in a relationship. Now you might find out something that at first glance, seems different than how you prefer things or how you look at the world. But before you kick him to the curb, be open to trying something new. Don’t try to change who you are, but you never know—you may find out that you get a boyfriend and a new hobby or interest in the process.

Step 5: Don’t Overthink Things. I don’t know about you ladies but when I like a guy, my tendency is to overanalyze everything he says and does. Not only does this make me miserable but if I vocalize that overthinking of mine, it can drive him away. Don’t call him multiple times a day and don’t text nonstop. If he wants to spend time with his friends, don’t complain that you don’t get to see him enough. You both need to be secure enough in your burgeoning relationship to let each other do things independently. It will make the time you spend together even sweeter.

Step 6: Appreciate What You Have and Make Sure You Feel Appreciated. I have a disturbing tendency of watching sappy, sickly sweet romantic comedies and build up a fantasy idea of my future boyfriend. There is no way that any normal human guy can live up to the qualities displayed in the perfect boyfriends and husbands on display in the movies and television. You will not be able to change him into a perfect specimen of hotness and chivalry. He is who he is and if you can’t appreciate him the way he is, you need to get out now. And remember back around step 2 when we talked about self-confidence? Well, you need to make sure that he appreciates you for who you are and doesn’t try to change you. Feeling unappreciated and like something is wrong with you will sabotage your self-confidence and make you miserable.

If at the end of these six steps, you end up with a great relationship, well, that is just fantastic. If you don’t or you find that your guy doesn’t appreciate you or treats you poorly, don’t settle. The woman who can follow the steps will be the happiest and healthiest version of herself possible, with or without a boyfriend.

It's Like 10,000 Spoons When All You Need Is A Knife

Today I paid a long overdue visit to my Aunt Marge. I've been meaning to visit her for months and I finally hauled my lazy butt over there. I see my Uncle on my mom's side fairly frequently, about once a week or so. We share mutual interests in dogs, festive beverages, making sure that he and my cousin have an appropriate amount of homemade baked goods, and attempting to prevent WWIII from breaking out between said uncle and cousin. I sadly see uncles and aunt in Florida and England far less frequently than I'd like to. Since air fare is pretty steep right now, I decided to at least pick up the slack with my Aunt Marge. She's not as coherent as she used to be, but she still loves to sing and when she laughs you can catch glimpses of the sunny, funny side of her. 


Isn't it ironic then that, on the weekend I decide to put a concerted effort into working on my book of the joys of singletonism, my dear Aunt turns to me in a moment of unexpected clarity to ask, "Didn't you ever think of getting married?"


I was momentarily stunned while she sat patiently waiting for my answer. I replied with something along the lines of yes, I did think of it but it just hasn't worked out that way. She looked confused for a minute, maybe thinking that I had meant to get married but somehow never got around to it; like how I mean to clean the basement but it remains a hot mess. Then she grabbed my face and told me I was beautiful. That was almost too much to take; I teared up a bit, seeing myself through her eyes, and decided that that was so much better than being told I'll meet the right guy soon--this being what far too many people say when asking why I'm not married.


My aunt could have written her own extreme dating diary if she had chosen to. Well, maybe not extreme but she was a hell of a lot more successful than her maiden niece. My aunt had been married fairly young but sadly her husband passed a long time ago. She never remarried, but man, did she have the fellas running in circles for her! There was one gentleman who bought her fine jewelry and other wonderful presents, another who sent her flowers fairly frequently. Lest you think there was anything untoward about their liaisons, she reassured my mother repeatedly in my presence that she didn't care what they bought her, none of them was putting his shoes under her bed.

After her proclamation of my beauty, she and I chatted a bit more, me trying to describe some of the more memorable men that I've dated and her responding that they sounded like a bunch of simpletons. She was in and out of it for the rest of the visit but snapped back to when I mentioned a recent morning with my father. I told her that taking a page from her book, I'd started having out-of-tune (on my part) sing-alongs with my dad since music seems to be one of the few things that still reaches him.

Anyway, that morning he really wasn't into it. I couldn't find any song that moved him. He just wanted to go back to sleep. I grabbed CD cases trying to find one that would break through when all of a sudden, he started singing "A You're Adorable," a song that he sang to me all the time as a little girl. He forgot some of the words, but I don't think I've heard anything more beautiful in a long time. He may not always know who I am and he is so disinterested in almost everything these days, but there is a part of my dad that is still in there.

When I told my aunt about this, she started singing the song right away. I joined in and we did our own little duet in the common family room area, surrounded by the other residents. Then I kissed her cheek and returned home.

For the past two hours I've been thinking about her question. A few years ago that question would have me curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and chain watching horribly cheesy romantic flicks. In fact it did when my very young nephew--I think he was 8 yrs old at the time-- ruefully shook his head, said to me, "I just can't understand why you're not married yet." I'm pretty sure he overheard that from either his parents or mine and it was supremely difficult to convince him that not everyone gets married and that it wasn't something to be sad about. Hell, at the time it was difficult to convince myself.

Maybe that's why I started writing my book, as a means of convincing myself that the life of the singleton is a great thing and nothing to pity. Maybe that's why I have taken a serious hiatus from Internet dating, as the dates were getting crazier and less fun. I know I haven't delivered on this site's promise of extreme dating and although I hate to disappoint anyone that is actually still reading this very infrequently updated blog, I have finally realized that I don't need to wait around for a better half. I'm whole myself.

Don't get me wrong, if a tall drink of water turns up, I won't send him packing. Especially if he is wildly wealthy and either travels frequently or believes in separate wings of the same mansion. I have just lost my tolerance for wading through the online crazies to find someone acceptable, let alone awesome. On that note, I'll stop procrastinating on coming up with an ending for my book and just start writing it.

Sad Sick Singleton

No, I haven't suddenly become sick of being a singleton. Rather, I wanted to bring up one thing about singletonism that truly sucks, namely being sick. I recently developed a disturbing and disgusting allergy to my contact lenses. I didn't know this at the time, I thought I just had torn a lens and had a bad pair. Let me set the scene for you: I'm still at the office about 90 minutes after I was supposed to have left and my eyes are killing me. I determine that one lens does seem to have some type of tear and couldn't figure out what the hell was up with the other one. The result is that my eyes are irritated and itchy, I'm becoming increasingly cross-eyed from not being able to look out of both eyes successfully at the same time, and this cross-eyedness has me feeling like I'm going to vom.

So of course this is when my boss decides that we need to have a meeting about how we can overachieve on a task that we haven't been officially assigned yet, despite the fact that my eyes are red and twitchy and I increase the amount of mentions of being about to vom. I finally get enough done to the point where I am set free into the balmy night although on the way at least two people try to stop me for another meeting. GAH!

As soon as I get to my car, I realize that all is not well as I have got to drive myself home. I can only credit a fleet of guardian angels, some seriously undeserved good karma, or nearly blind luck that I made it home with myself and my car all in tact. When I get home, Charlie is at the door waiting for a long walk and some entertaining. I look around for my butler to walk him, take out my eyeballs, and give me a Manhattan, but sadly I have not achieved independent wealth yet. So I pry the lenses from my eyeballs, hurriedly put on my glasses, and head out the door for a highly squinty walk. After the walk, I'm pretty much done for the day except that as Charlie has not learned how to cook me dinner or take out the recycling, there is no rest for the weary.

The next day I had fully planned to take the whole day off but as my work to do list had not become my to done list, that dream was shattered, leaving me with the hope that I could at least take a half day. My eyes are actually worse despite opting for glasses over the hateful lenses and prodigiously using eye drops. I make it an hour or so when a colleague sends me into a near panic by wondering if I have scratched my cornea and developed an infection. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I manage to make an appointment with the one ophthalmologist who works in the state of Maryland on a Friday and get out the door only slightly late for the appointment.

But there's that pesky part of being a singleton again, I have to drive myself to the doctor's where I learn that somehow in the past year I have developed a serious allergy to my lenses and have some awful infection. This is when I would have loved to have someone to drive me around and make everything better, but Charlie can't reach the gas pedal so I motor to 3 pharmacies to find the expensive and elusive eye drops I require and then return home.

There have been worse times when I've been sick and filled with angst at my solitary state. During those times I will whine mightily until my sister arrives to bring me juice, walk Charlie, pick up my meds, or generally be angelic. But although I know that I can call her whenever (and hope that she knows the same goes if she needs me), that good ole fashioned Catholic guilt makes me feel bad for bothering anyone. This is when it would be ideal if in/near my house there were someone with two legs, a driver's license, and the ability to make tea and soup who would come unbidden to deal with me in my sick and sad state.

Now I know that having a husband or boyfriend does not mean that all my woes would be made wonderful. I've seen plenty of friends whose spouses are miraculously unavailable or unwilling when my friends don't feel well. But if I had some sort of manservant or minion, he would have to tend to me and bring me saltines, eyedrops, fixed ankle walkers, or whatever my little heart desired. Just the thought of having a minion has made me feel a little better.

Thinking Outside the Box

“Thinking outside of the box” has to be one of my least favorite sayings (along with pre-planning and “I’m not disagreeing with you but…”). However, I dearly wanted to think outside of the box a few days ago when I had to make that fateful leap of checking the box for 35-39 instead of 30-34. It was just some stupid survey but if it hadn't been my laptop, I might have thrown it to the floor and run out screaming.

I already had the feeling that I was headed for my three-eighths life crisis. As a sign of how loony I had become, I sat down and actually figured that since I am possibly now somewhere between one-third and mid-life crises, that I likely at the three-eighth stage. Since I’m not a balding male, this crisis has not involved purchasing a sports car or taking up some sort of extreme sport. On the more feminine side, this crisis has not (yet) involved a major or even minor plastic surgery purchase or juice fast.

As far as I can tell, this particular crisis just involves a lot of thought of the number 35. I see it as these looming numbers, 100 feet tall and made out of something like concrete, and about to crush me like a bug. Images of what I thought my life would be like by the age of 35 have been fairly persistent too. No, not the thoughts that you have when you’re 5 years old and 35 seems ancient. But how in high school, when we had to fill out those things with where we thought we’d be in 10, 15, 20 years’ time.

I actually saw my senior year book with all those thoughts written out not too long ago. I thought that by 35 I’d be married, have at least one kid, and be happier with my weight and body image. I actually did write that out – I didn’t write that I wanted to be skinny, but that I wanted to be a healthy weight and be happy with my appearance.

As I tried to remind myself with my last post, I have in fact achieved that last bit. Sure I could stand to lose a few pounds so that my jeans were a little more comfortable, but I’m about 35 lbs lighter than I was in high school. I guess one out of three ain’t bad because unless I meet a guy, get knocked up, and have a baby in the next 11 months and 19 days, I will exit the age of 35 without having fulfilled the first two parts of what I thought I’d be by the age of 35.

It’s not that this number has me thinking about running back to online dating sites (although some have serious potential at least for unitqueness/hilarity/mortification/physical endangerment like SeaCaptain Date, FarmersOnly, and the Ayn Rand Dating Site). Nor do I feel the need to hit the sperm bank and pick out a donor. It just feels a little weird. Like there’s some great big “to do” list out there and not only have I not done the things on them, but may never do those things. And I might be okay with that.

Don’t get me wrong there are some days when I am decidedly not okay with the idea. But by and large, these things usually don’t weigh on my brain for days on end. Until 35.

By the time my mom was my age, she had 5 kids and was 8 years away from having moi. Crap, by the time my mom was like 28 or 30, she had 5 kids. However, she had 5 kids before she ever had a house of her own whereas I’ve had my own little abode for about 7 years now. She had also never worked outside of the home and to this day never worked outside of the home, whereas I’ve been gainfully, if at times unhappily, employed for 13 years. And although I have no kids of my own, I’m the proud aunt of some damn find nieces and nephews, and honorary “Auntie A” to a few kids that are so cute, they could get away with murder, or at least tying my hair into knots or pounding on my stomach when we play “salon” or “hospital.”

But still, 35? I don’t feel 35. I still feel like an idiot teenager who has no idea what to do with her life and keeps hoping someone will show up and make the decision for her. I still plot out the tattoo that I’ve been planning on getting for about 10 years or so, were it not for my crippling fear of needles and pain. I still drink milk from the carton sometimes or have too many beers or take a nap when I know I should be cleaning or doing something productive.

They say age is just a state of mind. My favoritest boss in the world is somewhere around 73 years of age and he still works the schedule of a person younger than me and with a fire in his belly that I think will prevent him from retiring. Yet I know people my age who live like their best years are behind them.

When I look at Charlie, I can see more grey in his muzzle, but he still runs around like a pup. So even though some of those lines around my eyes and mouth aren’t going away and I fear its past time to call up the stylist and touch up my roots, I will try to run around, not like a teenager as I don’t think I can take the angst and emotional turmoil, but maybe like a 24 year old. The time when you’ve had to live a bit on your own but you can still remember the last time you woke up with your head in the toilet, although you may wish you couldn’t. When life seemed like an array of endless possibilities, nothing decided, nothing set in stone.

And on that note, I gotta get moving as I’m going to a concert soon with a friend from college. We’re going to see Dar Williams, a singer/songwriter I first saw in concert when I was 18 and she came to my college. Afterward, she went out with a few of us to a diner for late night pancakes and philosophical discussions. I saw her again I think around my senior year and then a few years after graduation. So my Brendala-friendala and I will grab an early dinner, hit the early show, and maybe grab a beer before she heads home to the kidlets and love-muffin hubs and I head home to Charlie who will probably get to hear me singing off-key to one of the more apropos Dar songs, “You’re Aging Well.”

You Are What You Eat?

I realized today that it's been 10 years since I went on a weight loss program that I actually stuck with and that mostly worked. I say mostly because I have put back on about 15 lbs of the near 60 lbs I lost. Regardless, I'm pretty proud of my accomplishment since I know the odds were not in my favor. According to a study I just read on the Internet (so you know it must be true), something like 95% of people who lose weight put most or all of it back on. So I did pretty good.

And yet, I am still obsessed with my weight. I'm going to guess that if I were to add up all the minutes when I thought about my weight on a daily basis, it would average about 45 minutes. This is a total guess but I think a lot days it may be more than 45 minutes. For a while I thought about keeping a record and making a notation every time I thought about my weight, but in addition to it being really depressing, if I decided to do this I would skew the results because I'd be conscious about how often I obsess on my weight and would think even more about my weight.

I know in my head that it's only a number on a scale and that I have a very distorted image of myself. But most of the time, knowing that in my head has no effect on how I see myself, how I've always seen myself. Since I was eight years old, I've been chunky, overweight, fat, whatever you want to call it. I kind of remember it starting around 3rd grade. There was a really extended period that year where my mom had a hard time getting up and dealing with the world, so my dad fixed my lunches. Dad would pack me the most fantastic of lunches: bags and bags of Cheetos, Ding Dongs, candy bars, those crackers with the red spatula and a well of cheez. You name it, if it was junky and delicious it was in my lunch box and there was usually enough for 2 or 3 kids. And I loved it. 

Of course, these dangerously wondrous meals were not the only factor of my increased weight and the fact that it stayed like that for 2/3 of my life. I was never an athletically inclined kid which is a roundabout way of saying that I was crap at sports and humiliated by/terrified of gym class. To say that I was a geek is a bit of an understatement. I was that kid, you know, the one who takes extra math and science classes on the weekends and in the summer. Once upon a time, I was actually pretty smart until the omniscience of the Internet and the presence of calculators on my cell phone meant that I spent less and less time thinking about problems and finding ways to solve them. 

So I was that kid. The nerdy one, who was in honors classes, band (and yes even summer band camp), drama, etc. It was great. I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I accept and even embrace my dorkdom. Except there was always something that diminished my love of life and self-confidence: my weight. I had this idea that when I was thin, everything would be better. This idea has stuck with me pretty much to this day. Once I hit puberty, I became convinced that as soon as I became THIN all of the guys that I had crushes on would regret how they ignored me and ask me to go out with them. I saw the word THIN in these big, hazy, glowing letters, as if they were bathed in a heavenly light. Something highly desirable and seemingly unattainable.

The thing is, I actually did have more guys interested in me once I started to drop some lbs. Its not like they were lining up around the block, but I had a period where guys who hadn't noticed me before, did. This was even before I had turned to dating websites. These guys from "the real world" were pursuing me. Me. Can you believe it? I couldn't. Now I don't know if it was solely due to the weight loss, or if because I was feeling better about myself, I went out more so I met more guys, or if my increased self-confidence drew them in and made them LIKE like me, not just like me. Maybe it was a bit of all of those things. 

But even when I got to my slimmest, I believed I needed to lose more. I still think that now. When I enter a room, I look to see if I'm the biggest person there. It's automatic; I've tried to stop it and while I don't obsess about it all day long, the idea of my weight in comparison to others--that idea persists. 

I have accepted that I just like food too much to ever be thin. I mean, food is great. There are so many wonderful dishes out there to try, I don't know how skinny minnies can resist. And I really enjoy cooking, particularly baking. I feel calmer when I'm in the kitchen. Ideas come to me a little more freely.  I don't want to give that up even if I were to become a size 6. Plus, my food can make other people happy, which is a really great feeling. A while ago, I made pots de creme for a friend and she was so enthused that she said she would leave her husband, move in with me immediately, and become my minion if I agreed to make the dessert every day. I have always wanted minions. But I digress. 

You may be wondering, what is my point? Why am I blathering on and on about my now-not-so-secret obsession with my weight? There is an idea, or rather the nugget of an idea, that popped into my head. If I admitted this obsession--this fear that people thought I was fat and that who I am is related to how much I weigh-- if I admitted this, I could move the hell on. 

Am I afraid that my friends and family, at least the ones who read this blog, will think I'm crazier than they already thought? Maybe a little. But sitting here now, just a few minutes after getting all of this out there, I feel freer. I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders even if it hasn't been lifted off my thighs. My new goal is for every time my brain goes back to that place and I think negatively about the junk in my trunk, I will stop and think of one thing about myself that I like. 

I'll try not to take this too far in the other direction to the point where the main thing that's fat is my head as I become so convinced of my awesomeness that I am unbearable to be around. Honestly, I think almost everyone out there could do with a little more self-confidence, a little less focusing on our flaws. At least once a day, look in the mirror and like what you see. Not what you would look like if you worked out a little bit more, or looked more like you did when you were younger; like what you see here and now. Maybe doing this will make it a little bit easier to go out in the world and see the beauty in someone else, in everyone else. 

Golden Girls

I know its been 100 years since I last posted but that was largely due to the fact that I've actually been working on my book. Gah!!! It is both exciting and completely unnerving at the same time. I mean, will people actually want to read about me for scads and scads and pages? Is this something I'll write and my friends will hide their grimaces and say things like "way to go" or "I really like the cover?" But let's leave this hand-wringing and angst until later for my latest dating rant.

On Saturday night I went to a party at the nicest house I've ever seen in real life without having to pay for admission. It was seriously swank: 3 floors, ultra finished basement, wine cellar, multiple balconies for me to recreate scenes from Evita, ginormous garage, beautiful lawns, and a fantastic porch. I felt like a perpetual sophomore using milk crates as furniture.

Now don't get all excited, I wasn't on a date with the owner of this house (although I do have a plan to become the couple's new best friend and get invited routinely to spend the weekend at their estate). Nor was I on a date with anyone. But I was there with a single guy friend who I've known for over a decade now. Before you start thinking this is one of those Harry-Met-Sally deals, let me say that he has unreasonable expectations about the female body and he has 2% body fat. He also hates to stay up past 9pm, doesn't like bevvies or lots of people, and doesn't seem to really dig dogs. He is however a really decent guy and a good friend so when he told me about this party for a friend of his who I hadn't seen in years, I said yes.

The evening itself was good - I really didn't know anyone else but people were pretty friendly, the birthday boy was hilarious as usual, and in spite of the fact that it was an ultra-posh pad I managed not to make a goober of myself. What was unnerving was the convo I had with my friend that brought me.

We were talking about how difficult it is to find someone to date. He has also tried multiple dating sites and although he hasn't had my atrocious luck, he also has yet to meet his other half on said dating sites. Anyways, my friend was saying how he was debating going on a date with a woman because she was one year older than him. One year. Yet, he was totally comfortable dating a girl 12 years younger than him. Sadly I don't think he's alone in this preference. Most guys I meet that are my age are looking for some girl in her early 20's maybe as old as mid-20's. When they find out how old I am, some of them high tail it for the hills as if I were actually 40 years older and offering them a prune cocktail.

The thought of dating a guy in his early to mid-20's gives me the heebie jeebies. My cousin and I have been talking about giving speed dating a try, but she wants to join the 25-35 yr old crowd where I feel more comfortable with the 30-40 yr olds. It isn't that I wouldn't consider dating a guy younger than me, its just that a) men don't appear comfortable with that b) the few I've met or interacted with are crazily immature and c) I'm just too tired to set myself up for something where I fear the guys would think I was an old maid trying to cruise the playground.

Why is it that men almost always seem to want a younger girl? I have been approached by some younger guys online but they inevitably are the ones who talk about suffering from a case of "macro-phallus," live with their parents, all of their profile pics feature them drinking with lots of ladies, and cannot seem to carry on a conversation that doesn't at some point lead to a discussion of my undergarments. Seriously, this one tried to instant message me for like two weeks in a row (before I figured out how to block him) and always started out with a question about my panties.

So what are the options left for me? Dating the psychos I find online, picking out my next boy, er, manfriend at the nursing home I volunteer at, being harangued by boys who seem to be perpetually pubescent, or being alone? Out of all of those, the alone thing isn't looking so bad.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

Two things have made me question what is it about me that seems to only attract weirdos and assclowns. Last night, I went out to dinner with some old friends that I hadn’t seen in what feels like about 100 years. We had all worked together once upon a time and were getting together because the one couple had moved out of state a few years ago and is back in town this weekend. It was a great evening and that might make you wonder why I’m pondering my seemingly endless supply of bad luck in the guy department. In addition to the first couple I mentioned, there was another couple and a single female friend. Whilst we were waiting for a table, the subject of my insane dating stories arose and I began chatting with my single friend about her foray into the world of online dating.

Now this friend is trying one of the many sites I have tried. She’s been on eHarmful* for a month or so and has met very few of the guys she’s been matched with, but is continuing to communicate with a small number of gents. What’s strange to me is that, even though she has only met a few of them, none of them were weird. None were matches that swept her off her feet, but none of them were wacko. Given my experience, I really don’t understand how that is possible. She said that she thought it was me – that somehow I was attracting all the crazies. I replied, somewhat frantically, that it was just that I had dated so many guys that there bound to be some who were a little bit nuts or frightening. But a nagging voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up and kept saying “what if she’s right?”

Fast forward to this morning, whilst walking my faithful canine companion I realized it’s been about a year since my last online date and that date was with the satanic fecalphiliac. If you want the full story, read Deal With the Devil, but the short version is that he had an email that had “666” in it and when I asked why he said because it was so easy to remember. And for some reason in at least two phone conversations before we met, he talked about poop. A lot. I mean, any discussion of poop before you even go on your first date is alarming, but he really seemed incapable of not talking about it. I think the context was about my dog and did I often come home to a house filled with poop, did I have to pick up his poop all the time outside, etc,. etc.

When I met him, he didn’t seem to be satanic and he managed to get thru the whole date without mentioning feces. That’s about all that could be said for the date though, so it was both our first and our last date.

So with my friend’s words from last night ringing in my years, coupled with the memory of my last internet date a year ago—this is of course not counting the debacle with the dog walking neighbor (aka the DW) who I didn’t meet online but now have to see constantly as he runs in and out of the neighborhood with that chippy little girlfriend who of course I have not thought about flinging a bag of dog poo at, but I digress… where was I?

Oh yeah, so now I’ve spent the morning wondering, is it me? What is it about me? I’ve philosophized that because I’m probably the first woman in a long time that has actually appeared to listen to what these guys are saying, that this is why these guys tell me all their strangest and most embarrassing traits within 20 minutes of meeting me. That may or may not be true, but I need to rewind to even before that point in time. What is it about how I portray myself online and “in the real world” and the qualities I say I am looking for in a guy, what is it about those things that seems to make me a magnet for the maniacs?

In composing my online profiles for the various sites, I often solicit the feedback of friends, both female and male, to ask for pointers. I’ve changed profile pictures and how I describe myself and what I’m looking for based on these pointers. I’m not trying to say that my friends are responsible for my profile catching the eyes of every weirdo in the DC/MD/VA area, but saying that I’ve taken the time to get people’s opinions on the profile to see if it’s the best way to go.

I just tried to find some examples of what I’ve posted but can’t find a single record.  The closest I’ve found was some of the answers I put to the free form questions that make up a person’s profile on Viral Venus* and here are some snippets:

Self summary: What do you say about yourself in 100 characters? I love to laugh and love to make other people laugh. I'm pretty independent and love to try new things. I try to spend as much time as I can with family and friends. Interests include yoga, working out, reading, writing, hiking with my dog, sucking at golf, cooking, playing the piano, and just hanging out with friends and family.

I'm the youngest of six kids and have a large extended family as well who mainly live in the area although fortunately some are in great places to visit like England. I really enjoy traveling and have plenty of places left on my wish list to check out. Some of my favorite trips have been kind of last minute plans with my sister or a friend - driving through Tennessee, taking a Navajo tour of Canyon de Chelley and staying overnight in Monument Valley, or hitting my aunt and uncle's cabin in WV for a long weekend.

I like learning new things and am an inexperienced trivia buff. I used to speak Spanish semi-well but a beginner's Chinese class gave my Spanish tones, and a general disuse has eroded my skills. This past year I started taking golf and yoga classes and really enjoy them although am far better at yoga than golf. I'm taking some cooking classes with a friend and am contemplating brushing up my Spanish or picking up a new language.
           

I’m really good at: Cooking, yoga, getting into hijinx with my friends, playing bizarre medleys on the piano, making fish faces

The first thing people notice about me are: My willingness to make a fool of myself to make people laugh, my crazy laugh, my NBA player-like height (ok, totally kidding on that one)

Fave books include "Gods Behaving Badly", "Eyre Affair", "Secret life of Humans", "Once and Future King", "Me Talk Pretty One Day". Fave movies include "Philadelphia Story", "Office Space", "Old School", and "Stranger than Fiction." Fave food includes Chipotle burritos, breyers mint chip (but not with the burritos), pecan pie, and twizzlers.

On a typical Friday night I am: Checking out a new restaurant, having drinks with friends, or cuddling up with my dog and finally plowing through some of my netflix movies that spend most of their time sitting on top of the t.v. waiting to be watched. Or if its warmer I'm at a golf class making a fool of myself with a friend and then out on the town afterwards to relive how goofy we were at said golf class.

That wasn’t what I had on most of my profiles but although I tried to keep accurate records of the disasters I dated, I couldn’t find any of my many dating site profiles. I know I’ve asked you in the past for examples of pickup lines (see What’s Your Sign?), but your new mission, dear readers, should you choose to accept it is to help me figure out how I should describe myself in a way that is both honest and appealing and most importantly in a way that will attract more mentally healthy guys than not. If I am to rejoin the frightening world of online dating, or other set-up schemes, despite my dating history, I would need some way to change it up so that when I’m describing my dates to friends as we catch up, phrases like “afraid of people and food”, “afraid of electricity,” “I feared for my physical and mental safety,” or “hair licker” are not the first words that come to mind.

*Name has been changed.