Just a few more minutes. That are passing so, so SLOWLY.
Happy Friday, ya’ll.
I get it. We had a small earthquake over here in the relatively insulated-against-acts-of-God East Coast. From the second it happened, I was tired of hearing about it. I’ve felt less spatially secure after two glasses of wine, than from that earthquake. I think this paints an accurate picture:
I understand-it’s scary when you’re not sure what’s happening, especially for those who live in areas that have been traumatized by massive acts of violence. But let’s think about how much worse it could’ve been. This didn’t happen here:
And it didn’t happen here for a few reasons: 1)the sheer magnitude of the quake was much smaller, 2)we have the means to fortify our properties against such disasters and 3)we have efficient emergency management plans and resources in place that allow us to act swiftly and safely to limit injury, loss of life and property destruction. So, give thanks that we had those things on our side, that we continue to have those things on our side, and that life goes on, as usual.
Everyone knows I love a good list, so here it goes:
1)I have a max capacity for number of secrets shared with me in a given week.
-And that number is one. Today alone, two people shared big secrets with me. It makes me physically uncomfortable to sit on that much knowledge. It’s the psychological equivalent of needing to unbutton my pants after Thanksgiving. Since having given up my former M.O. of the assumption that “don’t tell anyone” means “tell one person; namely, your bestie or significant other”, it’s become that much more difficult. I think it’s in my best interest (and yours, if you’re telling the secret) to share before 10am. Chances are, no one else has gotten to me first, and you won’t be met with a “LALALA, I CAN’T UNHEAR THAT!!!” Good grief. Go to confession, and unpack it there. Or to an out-of-the-way bar. Don’t bait me with a “Guess what?”, let me bite, me thinking that it’ll be something innocuous, only to hit me with something big. I just can’t.
2)I texted the following words to someone tonight: “Need dinner. Want cookies. Settling for a gin & tonic and some bread.” And was only partially trying to be funny.-I’m not sure when I became a frat boy, but this latest illness, coupled with being left to my own devices, has me eating like a maniac, and paying ZERO attention to what I’m putting into my body. G&T and bread-like some sort of lowbrow communion feast. I think what shames me the most, is that I totally wasn’t kidding. But in my defense, the bread WAS whole grain. I need to get my act together.
3)Social media is giving me anxiety.-The fact that there are people in this world that are submersed in social media for a living makes me want to blow my brains out. Facebook, fine. OK. Everyone (well, mostly everyone-those 50plus-ers notwithstanding) has a decent handle on that. But, oh God, Twitter. I started actively using it yesterday, and I swear to Ted Kennedy that I have never felt so overwhelmed by something so seemingly simple. Tweets, tweets and more tweets, with slashes and HASHTAGS (don’t get me started on that) and all sorts of coded jumble I don’t even understand. There’s apparently some sort of communication occurring, but who the hell can figure it out? #Dumbass. I honestly don’t know if this is going to work out. Especially if nprnews doesn’t stop posting something every .24 seconds. It plays into two of my biggest areas of compulsion in life-a hatred of clutter (you’re clogging my feed repeatedly), and the need to perform perfectly (I want to be Twitter-proficient, and right now, I’m basically scribbling with a Crayola, while everyone else is painting a masterpiece). And the nightmare called Tumblr? That made my ears get hot. Although, it may be due to the fact that my first encounter with it was on some teenage girl’s page, where she was chronicling her “journey” to anorexia, and an 85 lb. goal weight. That’s a whole different ball of wax, though, and all I can say is that that’s what I get for clicking with wild abandon on seemingly innocent Pinterest pictures to find the origin of the content. Sidebar: SO, SO glad I’m not a high schooler in today’s world. Jesus.
4)In summation, I need a vacation. From work, from people, from technology.
-Sure, I’ll probably need a blow dart tranquilizer to enjoy myself, but I think the rest could be good for me.
Just get me a respirator and a squeegee, I’ll do it myself.
Last Monday night, we had an hours-long downpour of biblical proportions, which I was happy about, because let’s face it-it’s been pretty dry here. Anyway, right before I left for work on Tuesday morning, I had to take the dog out, and for some reason, I took her out the back door, instead of the side. As I passed by the basement stairs, this strange glint caught my eye. Light, reflecting off of…water?! It looked like there was a puddle of water sitting on the carpet. Great, I thought, there’s a leak somewhere. So, I took the dog out, brought her back in, and gathered Andy to inspect the damage. That puddle? How about over a half-foot of water covering the entire basement. The partially-carpeted basement. Long story short, the following day included Andy working like mad to remove the water, and conduct damage control. Later that evening, we called the insurance company, who told us they’d be sending their “storm team” out within three business days (how’s that for vague?) to inspect the damage, and move the process forward. Ok, great. Fine. Meanwhile, the odor of dirty, musty, wet sock was slowly taking over our house. But, we waited.
Thursday, while driving to Andy’s parents house, we got a call from our insurance company telling us that the damage wasn’t going to be covered, after all. Apparently, it’s not in our policy. When asked why the person who initially took our call didn’t apprise us of that information, the gentlemen said, “They aren’t permitted to interpret policy.” What? So, “covered” and “not covered” are up for interpretation? But here’s where it gets really good. Even though the flooding isn’t covered by insurance, he said, we were more than welcome to seek the assistance of FEMA. Slack-jawed, we sat for a minute. FEMA? The same FEMA that didn’t even show up on time when a sizeable portion of the Gulf Coastline was underwater, and people were dying/starving/displaced? What the hell good are they going to do? Show up in three weeks with a box fan, and a formaldehyde-laced camper for the backyard? What a total joke. Looks like we’ve got to roll up our sleeves, and take matters into our own hands. FEMA. Come on.
Bachmann, Santorum, and Perry-Oh My!
Hey! Have a Bible, “drink the kool-aid” charm, and an utterly batshit platform? Then hit the campaign trail, crazy! I’m not going to spend any real time discussing the insanity, as it is all playing out clear as day before our very eyes via every media outlet available, but where the hell are these people coming from? I will say this, however: Michele Bachmann-you were allowed to marry a gay man,so why can’t anyone else? Seriously, though, the fact that in 2011, there are not only people who think the way that they do, but that they bullhorn it wherever possible, makes me shudder.
You know what these cupcakes need? A cough drop garnish.
So, out of nowhere, I woke up vaguely ill on Friday morning. It seems as though I have been revisited by the ear infection/strep throat/respiratory infection demon, for the second time in three months. Friday, it was that non-descript throat tickle, Saturday morning, it was that “Ok, I’m definitely sick” cough, and by Saturday evening, it was that “Alright, so maybe I’m going to die” grip of illness that renders you mostly immobile. That’s pretty much where I’ve been hovering ever since. My days have been spent in a Day/Nyquil fog, with a strong desire to bake. Right, because why not? I can’t breathe, and can barely button my shirt properly, but I think I can steady a hand mixer. I had to make cupcakes for a bake sale this weekend, which gave me my first legit excuse in months to break out the butter, sugar and eggs. And you know what? They were delightful. I should know-I ate approximately four of them Saturday afternoon, right before I fell asleep on the couch for 3 hours, woke up for 1, and then went to bed for the night.
Yesterday, I woke up just as wretchedly ill, but again, wanted to make some more cupcakes. I rationalized this excess by telling myself that I needed to tweak yesterday’s salted caramel frosting to be less buttery, and more caramel-y. Dextromethorphan does strange things to us. And so tweak I did, as well as burn my fingers on scalding hot caramel, and eat 2.5 more cupcakes. There goes all that clean-eating talk. I don’t care-when I’m sick, I have no use for tofu and raw vegetables. I’d like sugar, topped with more sugar, please. And some pixie stix.
Anyway, in the clear, cold light of the morning today, I dutifully packed up (most) of the remaining cupcakes, destined for delivery to two people who have either been promised them, or just need them, at this point in their lives. And I hope they enjoy them as much as I enjoyed making them. But, isn’t everything more enjoyable on cold medicine?
I had a doctor’s appointment this morning, and it was the one where I would find out if my tireless working out, eating clean, and generally depriving myself of joy over the past four months had effectively lowered my elevated cholesterol levels. Once I was in the room, I was chatting with the nurse, whom I adore, and told her I had been waiting with bated breath all week to find out the results. Being the great nurse she is, she overstepped her professional boundaries, and gave me the results herself, with the promise that I wouldn’t tell the doctor. And guess what? It worked! Ladies and gentleman, I am once again the owner of healthy, happy cholesterol levels…and also of a lighter body frame. So, double score! I told you I’d be the best at cholesterol-reducin’. The best part was that I got to celebrate twice, when the doctor shared the results. Anytime I can get two pats on the back, I’ll take them.
ANYWAY, I went back home to work, and while reading through my emails, I suddenly hear a pre-pubescent voice shouting the words to “Joy and Pain,” that lyrical magnum opus by the 80’s own Rob Base. I looked above my computer screen, and saw a group of 12 year olds coming down the sidewalk, the street performer in the middle of them. All of the sudden, they stop at the corner of our property, and now I’m curious, so I step to the other window. There I see the young man who has been singing unzip his pants, and begin peeing in my bushes. Oh, no. No no no. I flew downstairs, and flung open the door, causing the non-peeing boys to begin to shuffle along, looking back at their friend, who is still singing like he’s on the spectrum, the same two sentences of that song, over and over (you can probably guess which ones), oblivious to my approach. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! GET OUT OF HERE! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!!” I bellow, and now he’s wide-eyed, clearly struggling with his zipper. Little bastard, I think. I hope he gets it caught. His friends have now started running, and he’s unable to gain any momentum, due to his uncooperative shorts. At that moment, Pickle started barking savagely, which was a nice effect, because then he really got nervous.
So, with them gone, I go back inside, thinking to myself about how kids have no respe–, wait, what? Did I just say that to myself? Like something one of my old uncles would, say-These GD kids today, I’ll tell ya, got no respect for anyone. Buncha animals. I have absolutely no patience for anything like that, though, and I can’t imagine doing something so stupid at that age. I hope I don’t get a reputation as that lady in the white house..but come on, who pees in someone else’s yard, especially in plain view? Hand to God, I would’ve given anything for my hose to be handy at that moment, because I would’ve sprayed them ALL. Him, for peeing, and his friends, for hanging out with such a bonehead. It’s just not OK, in my book. Keep it up, kids-Halloween is just around the corner, and I’m totally not above handing out toothbrushes and pennies, in lieu of the good stuff. I’m watching you.