Finding myself, Losing my sanity.

It’s a day for introspection, my friends…

Before, after, and during my college years, I was told by many a new agey individual and philosophy teacher that I needed to “discover who I was” or “find myself” or “get in tune with my inner person” or whatever.  The only thing about myself that I ever knew for sure was that I liked to write, I liked to make people laugh, and I didn’t want to rush off into marriage and five kids like the rest of my friends had.  I didn’t believe in all that inner self crap.  So although I was pretty confident that I knew who I was [after living with myself all those years] it sounded kind of entertaining… maybe, I’d find that I was cooler than I’d originally thought? 

So as I set out on my self-discovering journey, I realized that trying to find myself was really just a whole lot of “hanging out” and “gaining weight” and “drinking coffee while having delirious late night conversations” with random other people who also couldn’t find themselves.  This all resulted in alot of deleriousness, altering of career paths, meaningless friendships, and relationship choices that would damage me for the better part of my life, which I would inevitably spend undoing all the things I’d done while finding myself. 

 Every person who is trying to find themself thinks that they must live somewhere other than where they are currently living.  You cannot possibly find yourself in your hometown, you have to go far, far away.  I was no exception to this rule.  Even though I’d never been on a plane and I couldn’t even drive to my next door neighbor’s house without getting lost, somehow, some way, one of my meaningless friends talked me into getting out of one of my damaging relationships by moving to Europe… this took place over a late night cup of coffee, of course.

[more on the ridiculous European excursions later…]

After going away, traveling the world, partially losing my mind, realizing that Italy was all I had hoped it would be, turning down a proposal on the Eiffel Tower, and then coming back with a newfound sense of whatever, I had quite a bit going for myself.  I had “discovered” a strapping young British lad who followed me back to states and was quite taken aback by my charming American accent [and the cheap cost of Midwestern living].  I quit college and started my own business.  Little did I know that strapping British lads are also quite good at disgusing the fact that they are millionaires, heroin addicts, and manic depressives. oh well.  I gave it the old college try.  Then after years of cleaning up after the British invasion, which consisted of almost being sued, being robbed and stalked by drug dealers, and hiding it all from my family- I decided to quit my business, go to massage therapy school, and write.  Massage Therapy is a stress-free occupation right?  Well, then I quit massage therapy school, and started another business which consisted of…writing.

So here I am, and after all these years of self-discovery I’ve come to realize the same thing I always knew.   I’m a complicated, indecisive, and independent girl who likes to write, and all of my experiences have led me back right to where I started…  Well.  That sure was a waste of time.  But it was fun.  Sorta.

By all means, everyone, please go find yourselves.

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Daily Dilemmas: “But You Left Spit on My Spoon”

[DISCLAIMER:  I take the issues discussed in the following blog very, very seriously]

 

I have had a longstanding issue with dairy products.  My contempt for said products may be the result of some deep-rooted childhood suppression that my shrink has yet to pry out, I’m not so sure.  Lactose intolerance?  No.  Vegan? Over my dead, very carnivorous body.  Alas, I wish the answer were that easy.

 

My taste buds do not discriminate against all dairy products, only a large majority.  Products currently on the black list: eggs, cottage cheese, yogurt, and milk.  Don’t even get me started on milk.  The reason why I despise the forementioned food items is because they possess one of the following qualities: slimy-ness, creaminess, or both.  But here’s the real thorn in my side– ice cream.  Love it, when it’s actually frozen [as God intended]; hate it when it starts to melt; and can’t DEAL with sharing it in any capacity or watching someone consume it.   I used to have a friend that microwaved his ice cream into a sort of soup.  Keyword “used to.”

 

Now, to me it seems pretty simple.  Certain foods make me gag = I don’t eat them.   Apparently, the individuals of the male gender cannot accept this as you will see displayed in the following dialogue.

 

Me: [sitting down on the couch with a huge bowl full of delectable oreo ice cream]

 

Him: dang. That looks good. Gimme a bite.

Me: no.  I can’t do that.  sorry.

Him:  why? I bought it.  I just want a bite.

Me:  I know, thanks.  You can go get your own, but I can’t give you a bite.

Him: i don’t wanna whole bowl.  what’s your problem?

Me:  I don’t share dairy products.

Him: I don’t want to share it, I just want one bite.

Me: i understand. but you know how when someone takes a bite and there is some melty residue left on the spoon? 

 

Him: yea?

Me: well so do i.  and I can’t deal with it.

Him: ok. I won’t leave any residue then.

Me:  but yes, yes you will.  It is an impossible feat to not leave residue.

Him: what the heck? why does it bother you so much?  You need to get over that.

Me:  because it’s gross and I hate it.

Him: but why? That makes no sense.

Me:  it makes no sense why you care.

Him: because it’s annoying.

Me: it’s annoying that you’re trying to psychoanalyze my paranoia of melty ice cream.  

Him: [walks over to get his own spoon, comes over and sticks it in my bowl]

Me:  what are you doing?!?

Him: I’m not sharing your spoon.

Me: but you’re eating from my bowl!

Him: I thought it was the spoon that bothered you?

Me:  it is.  But now you have your own spoon with your own melty residue and are scooping across the ice cream that I’m eating.  That’s still going to be a problem. 

Him: you have issues.

Me: yes.

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A Bankers Life: Too Much Information

I had a dream – well, I should say nightmare – that I’d abandoned you all for a few days… no hellos, no comments, no posts…  it was so desolate that one could see tumbleweeds blowing across the computer monitor.  Suddenly, I awoke to find that my dream was in fact, a reality! 

I have no excuses in my back pocket as to why I’ve been absent this week.  Except for the fact that I’ve been writing like a slave and was asked by the Editor to fill in for someone who was gone last night and couldn’t do their full show recap… and also tonight (on top of the live feeds I already have to recap).  Therefore, in about 20 minutes I’ll be watching the Finale of Celebrity Circus (to which my response was “what the H is that?”) and then writing a blog about it… since today is the first time I’ve even heard of the show.  We’ll see how that goes.

As time is of the effervescent essence, I will leave you with a short conversation I had today with a very elderly lady.  elderly, mind you.

lady: “hi.  I had you cancel my debit card a couple days ago.  Can you turn it back on?”

me: “no, once it’s cancelled, it’s cancelled.  Sorry.”

lady: “oh, really?  thats too bad, cus I found it.”

me: “oh, yea.  that is too bad.”

lady: “well i feel so silly.  you’ll never believe what happened.  i just can’t believe it.”

me: “oh.”

 

lady: “you know how when you’re at the bar you put your credit card in your boob?  well, when i got my receipt, i wrapped it around my card and put it in there.  i never saw it since.  but then the other day, the guy came out to change my LifeLine box [for really old people, in case they die or fall and break a hip] and he found it lying behind my dresser!  now isn’t that somethin?”

me:  [lifeline?  you have a Lifeline box and you were going to the bar and wrapping receipts around your boob?]  “huh. that is something.” 

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Big Brother 10 Spoiler

ATTENTION BIG BROTHER FANS!!  Not only have I been an avid Big Brother watcher and addict all these years. ..  but I am pleased to announce that I will be writing daily recaps of the 24/7 feeds and Showtime episodes so if you’re dying to know all the sneaky behind the scenes spoiler type stuff then come visit Realitytvmag.com. If you don’t watch this show, you should.  If you do watch it, then good.  And either way, you need to come read about it. 

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Daily Dilemmas: “How Can I Avoid My Dentist for Life?”

Throughout the ages,  many philosophers have attempted to answer the question, “Why would I rather be tied up in a glass box and left for dead in the Sahari desert than go to the Dentist?”

For me, it started when I was six.  It’s bad enough that I inherited my mother’s unbelievably awful teeth, and I always had an average of three cavities EVERY visit and they could never get the novocaine right.  As horrible as that was, it is not what drove me to camp out by the mailbox so I could tear up the “time for a checkup” postcards the minute they arrived and bury them in the garbage before my mom would notice. 

Flouride.  Do any of you recall having trays oozing with “grape” bubblegum” or “mint“ flavored flouride shoved into your mouth to protect your teeth from cavities?  Then once the trays were in place you had to sit there struggling not to gag as the slimey goo (which resembled windex more than it did any of the above mentioned flavors) started trailing down your throat,  all the while you’re gasping for air because that ridiculous vaccuum was sucking it from your airway.  I remember each visit (which ended up being once every two years, when the postcard sabotoge went according to plan) lying there, staring up at the ridiculous poster of toothbrushes hidden in the forest,  shuttering in fear, and wondering if maybe – just maybe – they would forget the flouride this time.  But they never did.  It’s as if they possessed some other -earthly -futuristic -robot memory. and i didn’t stand a chance.  Eventually, I started pleading with them.  “come ooooon, my teeth are going to have cavities no matter what, don’t you see?  Look at my mom.  That’s just my lot in life.  I’ve made my peace with it.  it’s time you got on board.”   But all my attempts proved futile.

Flossing.  I have done this section in red.  Red, for the color of the blood that my gums have shed at the hands of various hygenists throughout my childhood.   As i grew into my adult teeth, I was relieved to find that flouride would no longer be a part of my torture.  FREEDOM AT LAST!  That was until I discovered a whole new world of anguish. Flossing.  Throughout the duration of high school, every conversation with my hygenist would follow this format:

her: “hmm..  how often do you floss?”

me: “bout once every couple days.”  [lies. lies.  all lies. straight from the pit of hell!]

her: “you really need to do it at least once a day.  not flossing can lead to Gingevitis and gum disease.  do you know how to properly floss?”

[then she does the whole demonstration with the index finger blah blah]

me: “yea.  yea I know.  I just forget sometimes.”

her: “hmm.. I’m a little concerned.  do your gums normally bleed when you floss?”

me: “no, no actually they don’t.  only those times when I tug on them with the power of Hercules and probe them with sharp metal objects.”

Root Canals. Finally, when I was “of age” and “of my own insurance” I could choose my own dentist.  So i set out with my suitcase in hand and all the optimism in the world.  I didn’t stop searching until I found a guy who specialized in gentle, no drill dentistry.   plus, he was chinese.  I don’t know what it is about chinese people, but I automatically assume they are smart.  This guy won’t be shoving tubes down my throat and destroying my gums for no good reason, he’s above that.  He also informed me that ALL my fillings were leaking and  and that the reason I couldn’t chew on the left side of my mouth for the past two years was because my root was dead and I needed a root canal.  Smart dentist? maybe.  More costly than adopting my own chinese baby and putting him through dental school?  definately.

After shuffling around to the better half of all the dentists in the white pages, my dad recommended his childhood dentist,  Castrogiovanni.   On my first visit, I was pleased to discover that Mr. C’s hygenist was as gentle as a feather blowing in the summer breeze.  I smiled on the inside..  Could it be?  Then the dentist comes in and as he’s examining my mouth I realize he’s not wearing a mask, his face is really close to my mouth, and he is really old.   afterall, he was my dad’s dentist.  Thats ok, that means he has lots of experience.  Experience? maybe.  Halitosis? definately.

The search continues…

 

 

 

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BREAKING NEWS: Prince Charming Leaves Suicide Note Under Tear Stained Pillow

 

WARNING:   I’m going to have to ask that no matter how innocent and beautifully honest this blog may be, that you don’t fondle, grope, caress, or touch it inappropriately in any way – even if it is the blog of your dreams

 

BREAKING NEWS:  Prince Charming was NOT spotted today [or ever for that matter]  galloping upon a snow white steed, harboring a large shield for warding off dragons or scary people with guns, while traveling  through the enchanted forest to rescue a long- haired, bottle -blond damsel with daddy issues.  Sources have revealed that the reason he was not spotted was because he actually does not exist!

 

[ Cinderella’s response to the shocking news: “You mean I’ve been sweeping up all this soot and ironing my evil stepsisters’ button down shirts and there’s no fricken prince at the end of the tunnel?  What kind of CRAP is that?!” ]

Ladies: let’s just get something straight.  Prince Charming isn’t around.  He jumped the border and he’s headed for Atlantis.  To my knowledge he hasn’t even left a close relative or body double to be your shoulder to cry on.  He didn’t even leave his snow white stallion around the stables for you to pet.  His mother, the Queen of Nonexistent Men, found this note under his pillow:

 

 Dear Completely Delusional Yet Surprisingly Hopeful Women of the Land, 

 

“I feel like a classic fool.  [the imaginary Prince is British, of course]  I could no longer keep up this silly charade.  Blessed Respite! I am nothing but a fake.  I’m a big, fat (but very trim), dodgy  phony. I don’t have a steed, or a stallion, all I’ve got is an ‘88 Ford Fiesta.  I don’t ward off dragons, I run in the face of danger.  I run! I am nothing but a yellow- bellied coward, a coward I say!  My entire life is a farce, and I am the only one to blame.  Except for my mum who is partly to blame.”

 Cheers,   Prince C.

 

 

 

MORE BREAKING NEWS:  We are getting reports of a supposed uproar in Disney World.  Snow White has strapped a bomb to her up-do and is threatening to blow up her Happily Ever After Castle (which was to be her wedding gift from King Charming)  The Gingerbread man has plummeted head first off Humpty Dumpty’s wall, and Tinkerbell has joined forces with the fairy godmother coalition to spread raging pixie dust wildfires all across the land!

 

 

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The Bachelorette, hot flashes, and a hail storm.

So for any of you complete losers out there, tonight was a big night in the way of reality TV.  In a three-hour drama fest, The Bachelorette choses Jesse over Jason to be her fiance in one of the most shocking rose ceremonies to date.  Although every rose ceremony is the most shocking to date, this one really was.  

Even if you have no clue what i’m talking about, you can appreciate the story thats about to come. 

Its 8:45.  the Bachelorette had just told the first guy ( as he was getting down on one knee) “too bad so sad,” and then it was all a startling blur and somehow i was watching a burger king commercial -which was equally as intriguing to me.  i noticed 5 missed calls from my mom.  This was strange since we’d already talked today.  I got seriously worried thinking i must have a close relative lying in a ditch, dark alley, or jail cell somewhere.  

I call her and the following conversation takes place (my mom’s statements are in CAPS to emphasize the freaking out):

me: “I saw you called me 5 times, whats wrong?”

mom: “I’M ABOUT TO HAVE A SERIOUS CORONARY, YOU HAVE NO IDEA”

me: “what happened?”

mom: “IS YOUR POWER OUT?  MY POWER IS OUT.  THE LAST THING I SAW WAS WHEN SHE BROUGHT THE GUYS HOME TO MEET HER PARENTS.  I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT IS HAPPENING.  ARE YOU TAPING IT?”

me: “i’m watching it.  why would i be taping it?”

mom: “YOU AREN’T TAPING IT?  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?  I’VE BEEN WATCHING THIS SHOW FOR 6 WEEKS AND ON THE FINALE MY POWER GOES OUT.  AND WE HAVE A HAIL STORM.  AND NOW I’M HAVING HOT FLASHES CUZ THE AIR IS OFF.”

me: “well, you didn’t miss that much.  she rejected jason.”

mom: “SHE WHAT?!?!”

me: “yea.  i was pretty surprised.  so now she’s gotta talk to the other guy.”

mom: “ARE YOU SERIOUS?  I THOUGHT FOR SURE SHE WAS PICKING JASON?  OH MY GOOOOOOSH. WELL, WHAT CAN I DO?  CAN YOU TURN IT UP SO I CAN HEAR IT?”

me: “um, i guess i could.  i don’t know if you can hear it through a cell phone.  maybe i’ll put it on speaker.”

[standing the phone up on my desk and facing it toward the tv…. meanwhile, my boyfriend sitting in the corner gets confirmation that i have the most ridiculous family to ever exist.]

me: “can you hear it ok?”

mom: “YEA.  YEA. I CAN. OK.  BE QUIET NOW.”

[she picks jesse, he purposes, the show ends…]

me: “ok, well, at least you heard that part”

mom: “OH MAN.  I AM SO MAD YOU CAN’T IMAGINE.  MY HEAD IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE. ITS GOING TO LITERALLY EXPLODE.”

me: ” WAIT A MINUTE…it looks like it’s on for another hour!  its the After the Rose Ceremony.   she’s gonna confront the guy she dumped, reunite with her fiance, and make a special announcement!”

mom: “@%$#@^@!!”

me: “OK OK. SERIOUSLY.   i don’t have time for this.  i’ll tape it. bye.”

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Happy Sixth of July

I totally forgot the reason I titled the last blog “hot ghetto mess”  was because I was introduced to a website called hotghettomess.com  and let me tell you – it’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve seen in quite some time.  PLEASE check it out and visit the picture gallery… then go to “errything else”  for some ghetto laughs. 

On a brief, sentimental note,  Happy Sixth of July to all my readers- old and new… and thank you for being a part of my blog.   And to ANYONE who was, is, or is thinking about being in any facet of the Army – you have my deepest respect and appreciation. 

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A Hot Ghetto Mess.

I moved in my condo about a year ago.   Finally, last month i  got all the rooms painted.  About a week after that, I decided the living room wasn’t exciting enough.  I mean, it was this goldish yellow.  it was nice.  and soothing.  but come on.  the surrounding walls are pale yellow, the main wall is goldish yellow, and the couch is like some other form of yellow. 

i have no idea how this happened.

green. 

green is what i needed.  so i went to Home Depot, which in all actuality isn’t really the greatest paint store in the world as they train any Tom, Dick, and almost Hairy eighteen yr old boy to be a “paint specialist” after viewing  a 10 minute video.  i think at one point i was even a paint specialist.   but as a former employee i still can’t bring myself to save big money at Menards.

 after many days of searching for the perfect green, i purchase a can and go home with my hopes set high.  i stared at the paint for a good two weeks, then finally got up the motivation to actually paint the paint. 

Of course, it is my living room that i’m painting, so this requires me to move and rearrange everything in my entire house in order to make this one wall more exciting.  I crack open the can only to be greeted with an all too harsh reality.  the paint looks nothing like the color on the swatch but everything like the color already on my wall- with a tiny smidge of green.  so its diarrhea yellow. 

The can sits in my car for another week.  then i go back to HD and tell the guy the situation..  of course he gives me the spiel about how colors look different in different lighting, blah blah blah.  really?  well what if i dipped you in a giant vat of shut up because i don’t care?  what color would you be then? 

i have him re-mix it.  he adds more black to make it less yellow.  then just it looked grey.  to which i replied, “i’m not an artist or anything, but what about adding more green?”  he tells me it will be fine, but i should use a blue primer underneath to counteract the yellow surface.  so he just mixes a random concoction of blues.  fair enough.

So i get home with my very green paint and my very blue primer.   this time i find a nice cozy home for it on my kitchen table right next to the rotten bananas.  Another week goes by and its July 3rd- my day off.   I wake up, get a far off look in my eye and think, Today is the day.    Today is the day my house will be forever changed.  I get out all my supplies, call in some help from mom, get on my painting clothes, and slap on the primer.   its a crazy  blue… and as i’m putting it on i’m thinking, now this is exciting.  Then, with the first swipe of my brush onto the freshly primed wall, all that comes to mind is peas.  mashed baby food peas. or mashed baby food peas throw up.  this isn’t going to work. 

I decided that i’ll just go with blue since apparently green paint is far too hefty of a request.  Finally, I decide on a nice aqua-ish / quasi-exciting color.  While i’m waiting for the guy to mix it, i tear off a $5 rebate coupon, which normally i’d never take the time to mess with – but after realizing that i’m burning through paint cans like hilary burns through pantsuits – i could start working on a future child’s college fund or something. 

i get home.  After doing a test spot on my wall, drying it, and analyzing it from afar… i notice that it is actually electric blue. it doesn’t even have a distant cousin named aqua.

The primer actually looked good next to that ridiculousness, so i put on a second coat.  and now my walls are blue primer blue.  and i kinda like it. 

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A Bankers Life: Can You Reset My Pin?

[Here is a recent conversation between a Mr. X (we’ll call him Mr. X to protect privacy, but i’ll just tell you it’s pronounced boo-ty) and myself]

Mr. X: “yes, I’d like to reset my pin for my debit card, please.”

Me: “Sure, what would you like your pin to be?”

Mr. X: “B87754RH8”

Me: “Ok, sir, this is a pin number.  It can only be four numbers.”

Mr. X: “Ok.  just make it B877 then.”

Me: “No. I can’t do that.  It’s a pin NUMBER.  it has to be four numbers.  just like the last pin you had.”

Mr. X: “oh.  well, just keep it the same as I had before then.”

Me: “well, I can’t see what you had before.  I already deleted it.  You’ll just have to pick one.”

Mr. X: “Ok.   just make it the last four of my social.”

Me: “we do suggest for security reasons that you don’t use any personal information…”

Mr. X:  “oh. sure. ok.  how about 1959.  i’ll remember that.  its the year i was born.”

Me: “well, technically that wouldn’t be very secuuu.. actually, you know what?   that is a great idea.”

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