It's Good To Have A Plan

No koalas were harmed in the making of this blogpost. Wait- is "blogpost" two words or one? Does it matter since I'm fairly certain "blogpost"/"blog post" is not a real word? Can we make frivolous exceptions now that "LOL" is actually a word? All this, AND MORE! on the next episode of Anastasia Explains It All.

Here's to the Journey

Contradictions

I think everyone is a composite of contradiction.  We all have our desires, our needs, and often times they are confusing. 

Sometimes I feel alien, crazy, and like nobody understands me.  It can be isolating.  Then when someone says they think they’ve figured me out or are figuring me out, I feel indignation.  “F*** you!  You don’t know me!  Oh, like I’m so easy to figure out?  It’s so simple!  You know everything, huh?”  It’s ridiculous. 

I want men to be extremely attracted to me, but I am offended when women are objectified.  I want to be as sexy as a stripper but as classy as a First Lady.  I want people to find me intelligent and articulate, but not boring and nerdy.  I want to be passionate but not crazy, logical and objective but not aloof.  I want to be unique but relatable.  I want to be engaging and care-free with everyone, but have them realize I have feelings.  When I am emotional and upset, I want someone to care, but I am embarrassed if anyone notices.  I want to be funny and fun but not offensive or irresponsible.  I want to be serious but not a kill-joy.  I want my male friends to let me be a no-pressure buddy like one of the guys, but I want them to still think I’m hot.  Even if I can accept that not everyone will like me, I still think it’d be cool if they did.  But then I would worry that it meant I stood for nothing, or that people would find my presence overall inconsequential.  I don’t want to be neurotic but I couldn’t stand the thought of being brainless or vapid.  I want my opinions to be sought after and valued, but I want no responsibility for others’ decisions.  I want to be level-headed, fair and open to compromise but not wishy-washy and prone to be walked over.  I don’t want to need anything or anyone, but I want it all to be there if I want it.  And if I needed it, I wouldn’t want it to make me feel bad about that.  I want to be independent but nurturing.  I want to be a lover who can fight.  I want it all.

Maybe that’s the beautiful complexity of life.  At this microcosmic level it seems so chaotic, but when your view expands, it becomes much simpler.  We’re probably all very much alike.  Maybe we’re all walking beautiful disasters.  (Enter from stage left: all woodland creatures and two representatives from each and every race, ethnicity and religion...On 3 we all join hands and sing "We are the World".  One, Two, - wait, wait!  One, Two, and hold hands on Three?  Or One, Two, Three, THEN we hold hands?  Oh for fuck's sake.  We go One, Two, hold hands on Three, and then sing.  Amateurs.  Ready...ACTION!)

R.I.P. Knut

Farewell, sweet prince...

...we hardly knew ye.

Take these broken wings

Have you ever had this situation, where your friend is crestfallen and in a bad space…and all you can think of to say is, “Wow, that sucks.  Sorry, man,” and then later on think about sending them a link to Mr. Mister’s “Broken Wings”, as if that will make them feel better?  Yeah, that about says it all…

“Take these broken wings

And learn to fly again, learn to live so free

When we hear the voices sing

The book of love will open up and let us in

Take these broken wings”

I can’t be the only one that thinks 80’s music solves most of life’s problems, can I?  I mean, I hear Michael Jackson’s “We are here to change the world” and my whole day turns around.  Maybe I’ve seen Captain EO one too many times but I think that shit is life-changing. 

Oh, well.  I really do hope my friend feels better.  Maybe I’ll draw him a picture.

When my spirit explodes...



...there will apparently be a lot of blue bubbles. 

 
Have you ever had moments where you felt completely free?  Like you had an explosion of peace because you realized that all the limitations you feel, most of the frustrations, don't really exist?  Some days I have incredible moments of revelation where I see that most of the things that bother me in life are inconsequential- not that nothing matters, (I haven't become a Nihilist), just that what can't be changed can simply not be changed and isn't worth worrying about, and the things that I feel hold me back aren't really there.  I can pretty much do anything!  If I want to dress bonkers on the weekend, or speak with an accent, or paint a picture, or go on a bike ride, or travel to Mexico, or write a book or plant a garden...all can be done.  If I don't like my hair color, I can change it.  If I want to travel the world, with just a little planning, it can be done.  Feeling like possibility is limitless is one of the best, most pure, exhilarating feelings ever.  It's like the adrenaline experienced during a roller coaster ride and that "a-ha!" moment when you've solved a mystery or figured out a movie twist before it's revealed, combined.  It's like this giant "It's OKAY" feeling descends, and you kind of just feel like your wrongs are forgiven and Life is a giant present with a big bow, waiting for you to open.  I don't think I'm doing a good job describing it, but I think the best word to encapsulate this feeling is Freedom.  And it rocks. 

Whatever it is, I hope all of you experience it. 

And PS I promise I'm not crazy...yet.



Public Service Announcement

Just in case you were not previously aware, social and communication skills are passé.  No longer is face to face or even phone conversation preferred- it isn’t even necessary.  If you like a girl, text her flirtatious and borderline obscene things until she succumbs to your virility, reads your mind and understands you "like" her, and takes the chance that she may be a passing fling and goes on a date with you.  Success!  If you are hurting inside, post a Myspace or Facebook “woe is me” headline.  Example: “Why won’t anyone listen to me?  I just want to scream!”  Or for the super-personal but vague communication lovers: “My hart (sic) is bleeding and I feel like I want to die.  F*&# Men!”  This will surely alert people to your pain and prompt immediate and personal responses that guarantee you will feel better: “I know!  Some people suck!” or “Girl, I hear ya, men is worthless!  Don’t even worry about them just do your thing they’ll get theirs, amen!”  Success!  If you are mad at a friend, teach them a lesson by “unfriending” them on your social networks.  That will show them!  Don’t talk to them about why you are upset- this will only open the door for a time consuming discussion about what really happened and how it can be amicably resolved.  By one swift click of your mouse, you can show them just how upset you are: you are mad and can no longer be friends.  Of course, this may also open the door to groveling and penance from your friend to be graciously accepted back into your social circle.  In other words, success!

Also something to be aware of: spelling and grammar have lost their importance.  Nobody cares what the difference between a comma and a semi-colon is, or the difference between their, there, and they’re!  Who cares if educated people think you sound like an idiot- they get the point!  They’re just being elitist!

All of these types of messages (and more!) are acceptable: 

“U seen Blck Swn yet?  I liked it alot.”

“Id just assume go to wendys as del taco.”

“Ur off at 10 rt? Wanna hook up?”

“Yo member me? We met 3 wks ago at Seans house n u said I was hot.”

And remember- a picture is worth a thousand words!  Why write something out when you can send a picture that communicates everything?  Don’t write to the girl you met in the bar- send her a picture of you on a jet ski in a pool!  If she doesn’t respond, hit her with a “YO!” text- she’ll have all she needs to understand you.  You’re already well on your way to bliss.  If you thought that girl you met was cute, don’t waste time with words, send her a nude photo!  You’ve made her day! 

Remember, understanding social cues and being able to properly communicate are overrated skills that are wholly unnecessary!  Now, quit wasting time that could be better spent on illegally downloading songs and playing video games and shopping for, like, totally cool stuff! 

This Public Service Announcement was funded by The Idiots That Are Slowly Taking Over the World Because Nobody Calls Them Out On It.

Just stay out of my box

The mail and I have a contentious relationship.  When I am expecting something or looking forward with delight to receiving something, I check every day.  When I am making a stab at being something close to resembling "responsible" and especially if I think I owe people money, I check every day.  You know what I get?  I get junk mail.  Lots and lots of junk mail.  To the people sending me this trash: you are hurting the planet and wasting your time.  Sure, I recycle, but honestly this whole cycle seems like a giant waste of time and effort.  If I wanted information, I would ask.  Don't invade my mailbox with your drivel.  Even when the paper is recycled, (that of which can be, of course) there is at least a small amount of waste, and furthermore, the methods employed to recycle said material have to emit some amount of pollution, so you've still needlessly kicked Mother Nature in the crotch.  Solution: keep it out of my box.  (Not a euphemism.) 

Frustrated by all of this and having no way other options (because I am too lazy to seek them), I become less than religious about checking the mail.  I checked just often enough to not default on the bills I finally received (correction: just enough to not have services shut off, possessions repossessed, etc.), and the few visits were not enough to annoy me.  I still had a small mountain of rubbish to go through to reach the important stuff, but one trip to the recycle bin was better than 30.  The US Postal service laid a very severe blow to my plan, though, and without any consultation of any sort, single-handedly decided to stop delivering any mail to me!  Admittedly, I had scaled back to a once-a-month check.  But still!  I didn't move!  I didn't die!  For fuck's sake.  So now, after getting services restarted and assuring my creditors that no, I had in fact *not* skipped the country, I check more often, and as a result, am disappointed more often.  "Oh," I'll think, "did I get a card or a letter today?!"  No. I received a Penny Saver, advertisements from all of the seven closest grocery stores, and coupons to three "new" pizza places that I've been receiving coupons from for the last two years.  That check that was supposed to be coming my way?  Still missing. 

It's the same way with email.  My work email is a different story, but my personal email I check perhaps once a month, normally.  I do this because my inbox has been repeated violated by the unwanted advances of spam and a million mailing lists I never asked to be on or associated with.  I try to fight back but there are just SO many.  Now, when I get a personal email, I read it and respond long after the timeframe in which it would have made sense.  I look a bit like a jerk. 

I guess my real issue isn't the mail at all.  My issue is with people clouding up the things that are important to me with their barrage of requests that I give them my money or "like" their cause or appreciate the next trend or contact them for...stuff?  Services?  *sigh*  I just wish they'd all stay out of my box. 

Dinner and What I Don't Get

Last night I was forced to make dinner for myself.  I know, ridiculous, right?  Whateves.  I guess eating at home by myself once in a while won't kill me.  Unless I accidentally make my food with expired chicken or salmonella-laced spinach or chlamydia-infested turkey or something.  Then it might kill me, I guess.  Or at least necessitate the use of strong anti- or pro-biotics.  But that's neither here nor there. 

Last night I experimented with food.  Ingredients:

Onions
Tomatoes
Broccolini
Chopped Garlic
Olive Oil

Throw in pan and cook away until it looks like it's about to burn or get soggy.  Add:

Trader Joe's chicken sausage with sundried tomatoes and basil
Fresh Romano Cheese
A tiny bit of Brie Cheese because the Provolone Cheese you thought you could use has succumbed to total mold-idity and you were munching on Brie and Wheat Thins anyway

Put everything on an oven-baked flatbread wrap thingy.  Put baby carrots with Mediterranean Hummus on the side.  Consume.

Result: Deliciousness. 

Perhaps others would not appreciate it, but I sure as hell did.  It perfectly complimented my The Adventures of Pete and Pete, Season Two, Episodes 2-4 dinnermate.  My boyfriend gets scared when I list off ingredients that I think I want to throw together.  This may be because he actually knows how to cook, and he does it very well.  Well, I don't have the training, so sometimes I throw a bunch of stuff against a wall and see what sticks.  I think that's a metaphor, because it certainly isn't literal.  I don't care how hard times have gotten, I won't use the wall for a plate.  I'd likely use my hand first, or perhaps some sort of plastic bag.  In any case, I'd like to think I'd be more resourceful than using the dang wall.  Wait, what was I talking about?

Anyway, we're moving on to "Things I Don't Get".  There are a great many things that are very popular or acclaimed that I simply just don't "get".  This segment could also be entitled "I'm not feelin' it":

Dexter: I know people love this show.  And I get that the plot of the show is original.  I just don't think it's done well.  I've watched 5 or 6 episodes now and I'm done.  I could go on and on about the additional reasons why this is on the list, but I'll spare you.  Just know I'm not a fan.

Twilight: The book series.  I've read three out of four.  I know- I have come this far, I may as well finish the series.  "But the last one is the best one!"  No!  No!  No!  I was hoodwinked for three out of four and I won't make the same mistake frice (twice, thrice, frice).  I simply don't have the patience or energy.  The books do not bring me pleasure.  I think the "protagonist" is annoying and a piss-poor example for little girls everywhere to look up to, let alone mature graduate female students.  I also think the books were poorly written, but kudos to the author for making more money off of these than I'll come close to in three lifetimes.  I can't speak for the movies, because I only saw one.  I can say that I find the actress that plays Bella to be an unfortunate choice.  When I say that, I'm holding my tongue.  Those around me know my feelings about this actress and her "range".  She makes me want to pull my unwashed hair back from my face in emo-angst.  Uhhhhhh...

Rihanna: She's a pretty girl, and I've heard songs where her voice sounds nice.  But you'll have to pardon me if I offend burros world-wide when I say I think she sounds like a donkey.  I don't mean she sounds uneducated or crass- I mean she literally sounds like a braying donkey to me when she sings.  I may have felt differently about her if I didn't hear her on the radio twelve times a day everyday, during the two hours I'm in my car.  But the radio stations have made good on their unspoken promise to shove popular music so far up my ass that I hate it all and suffer from musical constipation.  So kudos to Rihanna for also making a ton of money I'll never know, and for having nice skin.  But I'll pass on her music.

Until next time, take care, kids.  Annie loves you.

Twenty Ten

I bid you adieu, 2010.  We had good days.  We had bad days.  We had many days in between.  I look forward to not missing you.  I look forward to looking forward and living presently. 

Victory shall be mine!

The AF Melt - Melts in Your Mouth, Not in Your Hand

I’m thinking about food.  I know- you’re shocked.  Well, actually, you’re probably indifferent.  If you knew me personally, though, you wouldn’t be shocked at all.  I’ve had a 20+ year love affair with food.  I don’t know when or if it will ever end.

“Dear Food,

I wish I could quit you!  (said in gay-cowboy-accent)

Yours Truly,

Aastasia Firmbottom”

I won’t delve into our sordid history.  Just know that my and Food’s facebook relationship status is, “It’s complicated”.

Anyway, if the magical food fairies wanted to pay me a visit for dinner, this is what I hope they would bring me:

The Anastasia Firmbottom Melt:

Succulent charbroiled chicken breast

Thick, applewood smoked bacon (with the fat already cut off- don’t gross me out)

Bean Sprouts (warm)

Caramelized onions

Cooked spinach and/or a bit of arugula

Monterrey Jack Cheese

Honey Wheat Bun

Get. In. My. Belly!

I may add ketchup.  Some pesto sounds really good right now but I’m not sure it would taste good with everything else.  I also wouldn’t say no to some creamed corn or sweet corn, or some peas, or some of Nanners’* delicious tomato/squash/onion “casserole” on the side.

Yes, sir, if the food fairies want to pay me a visit, I won’t turn them away.  Wait, Food Fairies, don’t go!  I have someone on the line for you: a Washington…a George Washington…eh?  He brought his buddy Lincoln, too.  They want to say what’s up.  They want to roll with you, if that’s cool.  Get back to me.

*Nanners is my boyfriend’s mother.  She’s a wonderful woman- very nice, sweet, and an amazing cook.  I’m thankful she’s a part of my life.

I've come bearing three gifts.

I don't have Frankenstein, Gold or Myrtle, but as an act of symbolic gratitude to you for reading my musings, today I'm going to share three tidbits about myself, three days before Christmas. 

- I can't stand it when windshield wipers are going an inappropriate speed for the amount of rain falling.  Driving in the rain involves a constant wiper-adjustment for me.  If they go too fast, the mania of the blades drives me crazy and if it's too slow, well, I'm just blind.  It has to be just. right.

- I am afraid of cockroaches...and failure.  True story.

- Although it surely denigrates my professional reputation, at work I dress to amuse myself.  Example: This week, I'm wearing my ugly Christmas sweater to work.  No, we are not having a contest.  No, others are not also dressing up.  I just think it's hilarious and awesome to walk around in a hideous sweater like there's nothing out of sorts about it.  I do this because I would want someone else to do it.  I would think it was funny.  It would probably make my day.  So really, I'm treating others how I would want to be treated.  I'm practically a saint.

Friday Night Lights and Sunday Afternoon Banquets

If I had been born in a small town where high school football was the biggest thing since Jesus was toilet trained, I would be a crazy person.  I went to my cousins football banquet and saw him get “lettered” (woot woot!).  While I was proud of and excited for my cousin I spent most of the time thinking, “Really?!”

My reasons?

A. The banquet was a luncheon, scheduled to start at noon.  While the event started at noon, for some reason unbeknownst to me and all other lunch-eating, logical human beings, food was not scheduled to be served until 2pm.  What did they think this was, Thanksgiving?  WTF, people. 

B. The schedule was not respected.  The events went over their allotted times and lunch was not served until 3pm.  Again, WTF, people?  Oh yeah, and hurry your eating the fuck up because we only have the room until 3:30pm.  Tee-hee. 

C. Several grown men cried during the presentation…the presentation of awards for a high. school. football. team.  Call me a cynical beeyotch, but really? 

A part of me was flabbergasted.  I know it’s not nice, but my first thoughts were, have these people really lived?  How sheltered have they been?  Have they ever traveled, maybe to another country, or at least out of the state?  Have they been to college?  I just wonder because it seemed like this, high school football, was the biggest thing in life.  Like stop the fuckin’ clock, this is where I want to be- forever.  Some men said that “Friday Nights” brought feelings they’d only experience again when they got married or had children.  And I am not sure how that’s possible.  I am not proud, but honestly, I was judging. 

But then my dad said something that turned my thoughts around.  What he said was akin to what the gorgeous Paul Rudd* said in Knocked Up: “I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles.”  Actually, knowing me, what my dad said was probably nothing like that, but in my head it all made sense.  These men loved what they did.  They lived and dreamed football.  They were proud of their team and they did everything to make it special for the kids.  This truly brought them happiness.  It almost seemed like when people find religion.  They just get it, whatever it is, even if I don’t.  And so I find myself thinking that if I find anything in life that brings me that much joy, I’ll consider myself lucky.  Really.

*Seriously.  Paul Rudd- marry me. 

Dance, Monkeys!

So my dear friend, Sarah Magilla, talked me into joining her for a Zumba class.  Neither of us had ever been before, and she found a place that offered a class free for first-timers.  I’ve been interested in joining a class or trying something different, to mix up my health regimen, which as of now consists of skipping second-desserts and occasionally walking on my work breaks, weather-permitting.  I wanted to join another friend’s softball team, but the moment they started sending information about twice a week practices, I knew we weren’t on the same page.  I can stomach a once a week commitment, but anything more gives me sweaty palms, or whatever that saying is that means it makes you nervous.*  So we went to Zumba.

Now, in my younger days, I danced.  I took jazz and ballet classes.  It was a great workout, and I think it made me a bit lighter on my toes.  I wasn’t half bad at dancing.  I’ve been entertaining the notion of returning to a class, to help get back in fighting form and to regain that “lightness”, which translates well into being limber for soccer.  Zumba is a fast-paced dance class.  While I was a little nervous, because my good friend KChang had an unfortunate stomach-to-bottom incident after her first crack at Zumba, overall I felt confident that I could handle it.

Since participating, I now can only assume that if God wanted me to dance, he’d have made me 50 pounds lighter and given my rhythm.  I realize that when I was younger I was able to fake it, because the instructors, God bless ‘em, counted everything out.  When you were in class, they walked through every single step in a routine and counted it out, usually counting up to four or eight.  Then it was repeated it until it was beaten in your skull and you could do the routine in your sleep.  At Zumba, they perhaps go over the steps once with you before the music starts, and then you just go go go, and try to keep up with the instructor if she adds more steps.  There is no counting.  I would try to follow along, but invariably I would misstep, twirl when I wasn’t supposed to, turn and be facing the wrong direction, or doing completely wrong hand motions.  I found that my body does not move like our instructor’s.  My limbs are not as loose, and they have a very slow reaction time.  When I tried to count it out in my head, it helped, but by the time I felt I sort of had the hang of it, the song was over.  And then we were on to the next song and a new routine.  In the end, I tried to mimic the instructor to the best of my ability, and surrendered to the ridiculousness of it all and persisted even when I was doing something completely different.  I endeavored to get a good workout, if nothing less.  I tried very hard not to trip.  And I laughed through a good third of the class. 

Honestly, I’m not sure who’s less graceful between Sarah Magilla and me.  She just may be my petite, in-shape rhythm twin.  This made the class far more enjoyable.  This whole experience was reminiscent of the times I’ve tried to mimic Turk from Scrubs or Morris Day and the Motherfuckin’ Times’ Jungle Love dance.  Many a time, I’ve jumped around in my apartment, with Mini-Bottom, Sweet B, or my old, awesome roommate, Mija, trying to nail the dance moves.  Each time, I’ve failed.  And each time, I’ve laughed hysterically with my girls. 

I may be out of shape, and I may have the grace of a drunken Tyrannosaurus Rex, but at least I am greatly amused by all of it.   

*I am such a good writer.  Honestly, I’m thinking I have Nobel-prize potential. 

You've just been thunderstruck.

Totally and completely: bad-ass.

And right about then is when I gave up.

So if I were to use one descriptive word to…uh…describe how this morning was, I would use “shitty”. 

An issue at work got blown out of proportion.  There was miscommunication and general clusterfuckery all around.  Emails were fired off, decisions were made, reconsidered, and changed again, all before one could exhale.  I guess that’s what to expect when you work in an ER.  But I don’t work in an ER, I work in an office.  And usually I can laugh things like this off, or at least let it roll off of me.  But this morning I got frustrated.

Here are the email highlights.

AF (to everyone): As discussed, here are notes from the meeting, revised to include your comments.  Again, please let me know if there are any comments, questions, concerns, or suggestions.  Thank you!  (Right here, I’m still trying to be diplomatic and helpful.)

Manager A (to everyone) – Manager B, please let me know ASAP if these changes are okay.  Thanks!  (I’ve begun to paraphrase.)

My Boss (to everyone) – I asked AF to review changes with Manager B to see what she’s okay with.

AF (to Boss) – Boss, I spoke with Manager A and asked if he’d like to review the changes with Manager B and he said he didn’t have time so to just forward him the email and he’d confer with Manager B.

Manager A (to everyone) – I didn’t know that was the plan.  AF, please review with Manager B and let me know any changes ASAP.

AF (to Boss and Manager A) – Clearly we’re not all on the same page.  Please let me know if I’m now responsible to meet with Manager B and relay the changes.

AF (to Boss and Manager A) – And now Top Boss said he may meet with Manager B to discuss the changes.  Or he may want to meet with Boss and Manager A and Manager B.  In any case, I should probably be there to make sure I know all the changes.

Boss (to AF and Manager A) – We are all a team.  I am anticipating concerns from other departments.  (Insert lesson on how to work with other departments for the good of the team, and how I should do things whether or not they’re my responsibility.  It’s supposed to be helpful but feels eerily similar to a reprimand.)  That’s called politicking.  (Editor’s note- I still don’t know if I’m responsible for discussing the changes, making the decisions, and relaying this information to our consultants.)

Manager A (to AF and Boss) – Top Boss wants to have a meeting this afternoon.  I won’t be there.  Take good notes!

I’m not invited to the meeting, nor do I know when or where it is.  About here’s where I realize that I still have no real power, I still don’t have any answers, and I will still be held responsible for all changes. 

AF (to Manager A) – I certainly will.

I realize that the countless emails I’ve sent out with simple to read, detailed notes have not been read.  The meetings I’ve had in person where I’ve gone over everything have not been remembered.  The meetings wherein I’ve invited other managers when these items were discussed, were not attended.  I make probably a third of what these managers make.  And I will still be held accountable for any misunderstanding, oversight, or disliked thing that happens.  Despite my numerous efforts to keep people informed and encourage participation, this incident has lent an unfavorable light on my communication and organizational skills.  This makes me a sad panda.

I am trying not to cry.  When you’re a kid, crying is an acceptable form of communication.  It conveys pain.  When you’re an adult, crying conveys that you’re a whiny pussy who can’t handle a big tough grown-up job, and perhaps you would be better suited braiding hair and baking pies in the kitchen after getting pregnant.  Or maybe just that you’re a bit emotional, and your overreaction is unfavorable.  It could be both.  Or I could be unclear on specifically how that act reflects on me; I may be exaggerating.  It’s hard to tell.

Manager A (to AF) – Wow!  This has all been blown way out of proportion!  Good luck!

And right about here is when I gave up.

AF (to Manager A) – Yes, it appears as though it has.  I am ready for Thursday.  You see, Thursday is the day after today.  Which means that this day is over.  Which is a fine thing, if one were to ask me.  Which one has not.  But I am a giving person, so I give my opinions.  And that was one of them. Another one?  Zombies- overrated.  If I want to watch a movie where everyone is going to die I’ll watch “An Inconvenient Truth”.  At least I can recycle.  Recycling isn’t going to cure Zombies. 

I’m pretty sure the work discussion is over when you bring up zombies.  And his silence reinforces this belief.  Which, by my count, makes me the winner. 

I think the lesson to be learned here is that when you’re having a day like this, all before lunch no less, under no circumstances should you give, loan, or sell, a fuck.  It only leads to impotent rage and frustration.  It is only when you accept the absurdity of your situation and truly look at the events in light of this grandiose context we scholars refer to as “life”, that you begin to relax.  A year from now, I won’t remember this moment, or this day.  Unless I re-read this post, of course.  You’ve got me there, smarty-britches.  Regardless, I likely won’t recall this day without assistance, and for that reason alone, I shouldn’t waste my tears or energy. 

And by the way, I’m serious about the Zombie thing.  I’m sure it lowers my “cool” points but I don’t get the obsession.  I thought “Shaun of the Dead” was hilarious just like everyone else did, but I’m not spending sleepless nights planning my escape route for the rise of the dead.  I’d rather spend my time trying to think of efficient ways to store mass-produced energy, or which foods are not improved by the addition of cheese.  Plus, I was raised Catholic.  I’m pretty sure “dead people walking” is called a resurrection.  Like Jesus.  And Lazarus.  If someone shot Lazarus, I imagine Jesus would be pissed.  He’d be all, “Awww hell no I did not see you just do that after I spent all day trying to wake him up.  Martha, hold these.”  Then He’d take out his earrings and his Halo and whoop. your. ass.  And once He was done He’d heal you, but then He’d say, “And what did we learn today?  That’s right: we don’t shoot the resurrected.”  And then He’d hug you, because Jesus is Love, after all.  And if you still didn’t get it, because you’re inexplicably slow, He’d show you an old “Goofus and Gallant”* cartoon, and He’d ask, “Now, do you want to be a Goofus or a Gallant?  That’s right, nobody wants to be a Goofus.”  And you’d sniffle and apologize to Lazarus, and it would be okay, but quite frankly, the whole thing would be really embarrassing for you.  For everyone, really. 

"DUDE!  NOT.  COOL."  Let the holy brawl begin.

*If you don’t know what “Goofus and Gallant” is you’re either a lot younger than I am or you’ve never been to a dentist or a pediatrician.  Or both.

Nobody's paying me to bitch, so this one's on the house

“Do you ever wonder how someone could even like you?” – Knocked Up

I wonder this all. the. time.  Well, half the time.  See, half the time I’m convinced I’m awesome and wonder how anyone could not like me.  I don’t recall if it was Mini-Bottom or Sweet B, but they nailed it with, “We’re fuckin’ awesome.  How come we don’t have more friends?”  I’m smart, nice, easy to get along with, have a good sense of humor, have a good job, and looks-wise have never even on one occasion scared a small child.  I’m doing alright.  Some may even call me a catch.  On good days, I accept this, and I feel good about it.

Other days, I wonder how anyone could ever like me.  I like cheese and ice cream too much to ever look like a model.  I can be needy.  I can be jealous.  I wonder if I’ll ever accomplish anything truly noteworthy.  I wonder if I’ll ever “grow up”.  I know my man loves me, but I wonder if he’ll ever love me enough to marry me.  I wonder if anyone could ever believe in me enough to take a big chance on me.  I wonder if someone could ever want it bad enough and trust me enough to say “fuck everything else, I want a life with you.  All of it – the marriage, the house, the kids.”  I wonder why these things seem to come naturally to other people.  They grow up, they find someone, they get married, and live happily ever after.  Or they grow up, get a great job, get rich, and have an awesome house and take awesome vacations.  Or they grow up, throw a middle finger to the establishment, and travel the world, alternating between camels and bicycles to do so.

I realize people shouldn’t go through life trying to prove themselves worthy.  I know to be a healthy person capable of giving and receiving love you have to love yourself and truly believe you are worth loving.  You see, I’m a logical person.  My practicality is both a gift and a curse.  But at times, it’s altogether absent or may as well be, because while I can rationally accept these things, emotionally I struggle.  How exactly do you like yourself more?  Will accepting myself be the magical key, and once I unlock this, everything will fall into place?  I hope so, because at the risk of sounding self-absorbed, entitled, or whiny, I really do want to just feel at peace with everything.  I want to feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, that I have good things in store for me, and I want to feel happy.  I don’t just want to be amused, I don’t just want to have fun; I want to be truly happy. 

And make it snappy! 

The Most Outrageous Update You Ever Seen If Up Until Now You've Never Seen An Update!!

Dear Blog,

It’s been a while.  A lot has changed since we last spoke.  Allow me to fill you in:

1 - I have brown hair now.  I know, I know- it’s been a while.  But reactions have been overwhelmingly positive.  People say the color “brings out my eyes” which seems nice at first glance if it weren’t for the fact that I’m legally blind.  I kid, I kid!  Nobody is talking about my eyes.

2 - The birthday train makes a stop for me on Friday.  I have really positive feelings about turning 27; I finally feel ready for it, ready to embrace it, ready to feel “twenty-seven”.  Except that I’m turning 28.  Twenty-eight feels like a kick to the crotch.  So I have a message for you, “28”:

Please try not to suck.  26 buh-lew for me, and I’ve about lost all my gawddamn patience for year 27.  Yes, there have been some awesome highs, but those were sprinkled in between way too many lows.  I’m tired.  I’d really appreciate a year without the following:

-loved ones dying

-one fucking mini-health crisis after the next.  Honestly, I’ve given more to doctors this year than I have to Dairy Queen, and if that doesn’t strike you as downright wrong, you clearly don’t have an unhealthy affection for ice cream like I do.  Also, I don’t believe my health issues and my DQ issues are related, so don’t go trying to pull a “perhaps you should eat healthier and exercise more” punch on me- I know your tricks.  Sneaky.    

-one “what-am-I-doing-with-my-life” crisis after the next.  Let’s just calm down for a minute or a year, shall we?  Let’s just accept the fact that we have a lot of “potential” and it’s okay if we don’t know exactly where it will best fit yet.  All of the oxygen plants create would be a waste if we didn’t breathe it and expel carbon dioxide. ß And by that I’m pretty sure what I’m trying to say is that every chemical reaction needs a catalyst, and I could be wrong about that, but then again, I’m a lover, not a scientist. ß And by that, I think I’m trying to say that all of the awesome things I am capable of will only be fulfilled if placed in the right circumstances, and sometimes this requires patience.  And I don’t have a whole hell of a lot of patience, but let’s not go pointing fingers.  This is yet another thing to accept.  So maybe the message should be “calm down and work on accepting yourself”.

-living paycheck to paycheck.  Let’s pepper in a healthy raise somewhere, shall we?  Mama’s tired of mooching internet and making false promises of new, long over-due spark plugs to her overworked Mustang. 

Thank you for your time, in advance, year 28.

3 - I’ve had some crazy ass dreams lately.  I shan’t fully recount them, but they included the following:

-my teeth falling out, but not the one that I’m genuinely afraid will fall out- the good ones.

-a plane ride with my boyfriend, his ex-brother-in-law, and my ex-boyfriend.  The plane dropped in elevation, flew low, and this was to go under a bridge to avoid enemy fire, which we then had to reciprocate.  We blew something up that was trying to down the plane.

-a lesbian marriage.  She was someone I’d never seen before, she dressed in an Alexander McQueen-type punk formal dress; I inexplicably chose a magenta satin prom dress with a black fur stole.  There was no ceremony, but I was late to it (which is about the only true to life element of this dream), and afterwards I was upset because I hadn’t gotten to wear a white dress or have the wedding the way I wanted it and I married a woman!  I was upset.

-I was involved in some sort of criminal gang with Jesse James.  Not the original Jesse James- the motorcycling, philandering, his face graduated from the Beauty-School-of-Hard-Knocks one.  We would burglarize companies, I think, and had plans to hit a place but backed out because it felt wrong.  We were lucky because it was a sting operation.  I told him I wanted out, and cried as I told him I needed to do something that my parents would be proud of.  He let me out of the gang, but I was immediately suspicious of him because I thought surely he’d sold me out to the feds.

-We (me and other people in “my group” I don’t know or remember) were surrounded and the only way to get out was to “fish” by throwing out lines with razor blades attached.  They’d sink into peoples’ cheeks and foreheads.  We’d take them out, and they’d go away.  It was like catch and release, with blades for people.  Disturbing.

Going to sleep is an adventure every night because while my dreams are amusing, they are also very uncomfortable and disturbing, and often times I desperately want to wake up but cannot.  If anything, it reaffirms that people should not do drugs before bedtime.  Or anytime, really.  I don’t do drugs.  This is like a public service announcement!  You’re welcome, America. 

If I think of anything else, dearest blog, I’ll get back to you. 

God Bless

*Did you see what I did there?  I gotta be the craftiest motherfucker alive!

And *that's* how you land without a parachute OR Gas Station Valet and Orcas: Think about it!

Someone is going to get a stern letter about this.

So last night I was on a road trip with some friends, and it may have been for pleasure, just as it may have been because we were running away from bad people.  It’s anyone’s guess.  However, we’d stopped and were nestling into our beds to go to sleep when we all realized that the reason none of us were tired was because it was only 6:30pm.  I decided I wanted to go sky diving, so I left and found a field where this was happening.  I jumped out of an airplane and remembered feeling very curious because I didn’t feel like I did the last time I went sky diving.  The last and only time I’ve been sky diving was in 2005, in some remote field around the northeastern coast of Australia.  It was a tandem jump from a small plane, at 14,000 feet.  I felt at first amazing weightlessness, then cold air rushing at me from all angles as I plummeted at alarming speeds towards the ground, before floating at a quickened pace towards land.  This time, however, I just felt light, and like I was floating.  Also different this time around: my parachute didn’t deploy.  Unlike most normal people, I didn’t panic.  I merely noticed the issue, continued to try to deploy it, and decided that I’d better figure out a good way to land.  I also remembered thinking about how I was totally going to blog about this, and how I was going to draw a picture of me without a parachute.  Lucky for me it turns out that I am a champ-lander, and I landed effortlessly, merely jogging in place until I hit the ground.  I was glad I was safe, however, giving people faulty parachutes is just bad business, so I had to speak with the management.  I told the HMFIC about the incident, and she immediately understood, apologized for the situation, and asked me to standby while she spoke with some others and tried to figure out how to handle it.  While waiting, I met another man who apparently had the same issue I did.  He reminded me a lot of my friend Nick, the traveling Welshman, but he was a little older and had children.  He was also interested in history, and liked to read- this I discerned from our brief conversation.  I wondered about what my compensation for this grievous mistake would be- would I be given several thousand dollars?  Would I at least get several free passes to come back and have my friends join me on a different jump?  I’d mentally settled on this last possibility, when the manager lady walked back in.  She handed the gentleman a stack of books, I think about World War II, and about British history.  This was to make up for that whole bad-parachute incident.  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders, and said she must have gleaned from a statement he’d made that he liked history.  Apparently he didn’t love it, but he liked it, so he guessed it would do.  Then the manager lady gave me, in recompense, a rifle.  Either that or a large BB gun- hard to tell.  I wondered what in the world I was going to do with this, since I don’t shoot and don’t really have need or want of a gun.  I remember feeling slighted because I had my heart set on those passes.  I remember thinking, “Well, I guess I should figure out how to use this thing, since I now own it.”  And then I was somewhere else entirely, doing something entirely different. 

I guess that’s how dreams work. 

Aren’t dreams wonderful?  I had a dream recently wherein I had to get gas, so I drove to a gas station near the beach.  This was no ordinary gas station, though.  You had to wait in line for a long time, so basically you gave your car to a gas station valet, who would fill it for you when it was time.  In the meantime, you waited in the stands, because underneath and around the gas station was a massive tank for the Orcas.  It was like SeaWorld, while you waited!  Between the whales and the ocean in the background, it was the most beautiful, coolest gas station in the world!  And I went to it! 

Sometimes I wish reality was more like my dreams.  Only when they’re cool dreams, though.  I’ll pass on the ones I have about people trying to kill me.  Those people need to lighten up.