Planning Ahead

In just thirty-nine short yet impossibly long and drawn-out days, I will strap myself into an uncomfortable and smelly seat inside a flying metal tube and be catapulted across 3,000 miles of deep, deep ocean water, surviving on gummy airline food and weak coffee. Actually, I love airline food. It’s completely disgusting but there is something so retro and cool about having a tray of sodium-laden foods all bundled up in their saran-wrap-cocoons that appeals to me. There’s no logic in it, but I like it. The coffee is a different story. Why even try?

Yes, I’m just nine and thirty days away from a much needed, much anticipated vacation. To say I’m excited is a bit of an understatement.

I was originally going to strike out on my own – which would have been fun. There’s something very liberating and free about exploring a new place by yourself. It forces you to step outside your comfort zone and strike up conversations with strangers. I’ve done it twice before and lived to tell about it. However. The huge drawback is that there is no one back home to talk about it with. Sure, most people seem excited to hear about the trip and where you went and what you saw, but you only get a small window of time. They didn’t share those experiences. They aren’t quite as excited to hear, yet again, about how you left your luggage on a train while you went to grab lunch and then saw a train pull out and thought it was the one you left your luggage on and nearly peed your pants in the middle of the station. And rightfully so. They weren’t there. Why would they want to talk about that story a hundred times? But, if you’re traveling with somebody and that happens, seven years later you can randomly say, “Hey, remember that time the train pulled out…” and they’ll immediately get it and you’ll share a laugh remembering what a horrible, horrible feeling that was. (Believe me, Megan and I still talk about it.) All that to say, yes, I would have had fun on my own, but I’m so happy I found a traveling companion to go with! (Thanks, Ashley!)

I don’t see myself as a huge planner. Sure, I go through about four planners a year but only because I get bored with the colors or the layout or I’ve spilled coffee on one-too-many pages. I always hope that “the next one” will really help me organize my life. I spend hours salivating in the office supply aisles of Walmart and Target or pinning every single customized, glitterized, fancified idea on Pinterest. I’ve yet to find one that really works. But, you only get out of it what you put into it, and well, the biggest thing I put into them is, in fact, the spilled coffee, so I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my life is still, seemingly unorganized.

When it comes to traveling, however, I am mean-supreme-planning-machine. I’d love to be one of those types who can fly by the seat of her pants, hopping from train to bus from city to site without any sort of an idea of where they’ll be sleeping that night. But I’m not. I like to have everything – most everything – mapped out and sorted ahead of time. Partly because I really do enjoy it. And partly because it’s too dang expensive to drop that much money on a plane ticket and not have some semblance of what you’ll be doing when you land. Especially if you’re landing in London, where the conversion from US Dollar to British Pound is obscene and it’s near impossible to find a decent hotel room that doesn’t require you to sell an organ on the black market in order to pay for it. And since I haven’t stumbled upon a winning lottery ticket or married an oil sheik, I travel with a budget in mind. Planning ahead and paying ahead are key.

In order for a hotel in London (or anywhere in Europe for that matter) to earn the title of “decent”, in my humble opinion it really comes down to the following two words: Private bathroom.

Whenever I book hotels in America, I never have to stop and double check if my room comes with its own bathroom or if I’ll be sharing it with eight other people on my floor. It’s just assumed. However, it’s often a different story overseas where the communal-facility-phenomenon isn’t limited to low budget youth hostels. It’s kind of the norm for many places. Some rooms have just a shower but no toilet. Some have the toilet, but you have to hoof it to the end of the hall for the shower. At the very least you’ll have your own private sink. Oh, the luxury!

In my “youth” I stayed at a fair share of dumpy hostels and hotels while exploring Europe. While each had their own sort of charm, the one in Rome stands out in my memory the most vividly. It wasn’t the poorly lit street or the sketchy neighborhood. It had little to do with the “most-likely-gang-members” loitering outside during all hours of the night or the mysterious packages being passed from palm to palm. It wasn’t the lack of an elevator or our fourth floor room reached only by a terrifyingly narrow and steep staircase. And it wasn’t the probably well-meaning yet still creepy front desk clerk who offered to bring us breakfast to our room each morning even though there was no mention of it in the hostel’s description. It stands out because of the shared bathroom.

One bathroom. One bathroom for me, for Megan, and for twelve Chinese men. It was in that moment that I vowed, never again…NEVER AGAIN. It was a long and disgusting five evenings and six mornings.

Hence, the importance of planning ahead. We’ve spent many long hours scouring travel sites and Trip Advisor to sniff out the best deals for the best decent hotels. And we’ve made out pretty well. (Traveling during the off-season does have its perks.) And so, with thirty-nine days to spare, we have secured and paid for all our train travel, eight day-long tours, nearly all our admission tickets to the sites we plan to visit, and fourteen nights’ stay in England and Scotland. And NONE of them have a shared bathroom. Victory.

(On a side note, I am in the midst of typing up our itinerary…15 pages so far…and am fantasizing about going to Staples and having it printed and bound into book form. Maybe I AM organized.)

 

100 Days of Happiness (?)

I’m sure most everybody is familiar with the “100 Days of Happiness” challenge. Yes? No? To sum it up- you post, tweet, or share a photo (whether that be Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, or whatever else the cool kids are using these days) that makes you happy (obviously) for 100 straight days. Simple concept. Nice goal.

Several months ago I decided to do the challenge. I took one picture. And then forgot all about it.

Oops.

But the other day I got an itch to try it again. It seemed like a brilliant solution for the days (*cough* weeks…months…) when I have absolutely zero thoughts and nothing of interest to write about. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then as Sonny Corleon would say, “bada bing”. I’ll be golden. Plus,  I recently purchased a fancy-schmancy camera with lots of bells and whistles and I figured this would be a great excuse to use it.

I did a bit of reading on this Happiness-thing; it’s origins, how it started, other people’s posts, etc. Most everything I read was positive. Super positive. It was life changing and life affirming and basically the greatest thing ever.  Soon, I felt like I had just eaten an entire pack of Peeps and was on an extreme sugar high. Yeah! Go team, go! I can do this and it’s going to be super awesome! (Please note: I don’t normally talk like that in real life, but that was the effect this #100daysofhappiness business was having on me.)

Then I read this gal’s post on the matter.

Remember Debbie Downer from SNL?

That’s basically what happened.

So then I began to worry. Would I suffer the same fate? Would a challenge, a challenge specifically designed to focus on happiness, make me miserable? Would I look “smug, egotistical, and sickening?” Would I be wracked with guilt if I forgot to post a picture? Would all my friends and family and followers begin to hate me for overloading their Twitter or Facebook feeds? Would I become a social media pariah, removed from newsfeeds and blocked from profile access the world over?

Then I got over it.

For starters, I don’t think posting pictures of what makes you happy could make you look smug or egotistical. Unless you’re constantly posting pictures of oversees travel, dates with James Franco, or big piles of cash. If you’re posting any combination of these things then you deserve a good throat slap and I hope your private jet next takes you somewhere without Wi-Fi. But because mine will probably be pictures of dogs or new jars of peanut butter, I don’t expect to earn any haters.

Secondly, I won’t be wracked with guilt if I forget to take a picture. I forgot to take pictures for 99 days the first go-round. I think I’ll be ok.

Third, I will be using the blog as my way to share my “happy” photos- this way nobody can accuse me of clogging up their newsfeed. Side bar: Take a look at the bottom right hand corner of your screen. See that little downward pointing triangle? Now push it. See what happens? You can scroll through things you don’t want to read. I know, I know. It’s genius. (Sorry- I get mean when I’m going through a post-sugar crash.)

And lastly, I had a few friends who did the challenge on Facebook (and completed it…go you guys!) and I never once thought any of those things about them. Of course, none of them included James Franco…

All that to say, I herby begin my quest to find (and document) one thing (or person, event, thought, experience) that makes me happy.. OR makes me laugh. Those can be distinctly separate things. [For example, when my dog seriously freaks out over a rustling grocery bag and leaps up against the table legs and knocks over a vase full of flowers and sends water from here to kingdom come, it doesn’t make me happy, but it will (eventually) make me laugh.]

 

So without further ado, I give you:

 

Day 1

 

Pretty convincing, eh? You can hardly tell it’s been photo shopped. Thank you, Windows Paint.

 

Stay tuned for real things that make me happy… 🙂

Of Toe Hairs and Glossy People

It’s great to be alive today: Microwave pizza. Robotic vacuums. The TV show, “Dance Moms”. The Snuggie and Grumpy Cat. James Franco. Definitely James Franco. Yes, we have a lot going for us in the 21^st century.

We also have the internet and social media and Wi-Fi virtually everywhere we go and with that, the ability to create an image, a carefully and specifically cultivated portrayal of how we hope the outside world sees us. We share exciting posts about new cars and new babies and new boyfriends and girlfriends; post pictures of our beautiful heirloom tomatoes freshly picked from the garden and the wish-you-were-here “hot dog leg” shots at the beach; fill timelines with countless selfies taken at such awkward angles you wonder if the chiropractor is on speed dial; tag ourselves at the library and Magic Mountain and use the #lovinlife ad nauseam. How we want to be seen can be controlled by a few clicks and a few swipes. It’s fantastic.

Side bar: Can you imagine being alive in the 1500s and relying on the paintings of a disgruntled artist to portray your “handsome figure” to the outside world? There’s no way this photo would have been set as Katherine Tudor’s profile picture.

Now don’t get me wrong. There’s no judgment coming from this corner of cyberspace. I do all of the above mentioned. And then some. There’s not a thing wrong with sharing about what makes you happy or proud or excited.

But this all got me thinking: What does my Facebook or Instagram say about me? (I would include Twitter but seeing as how I’ve tweeted approximately seven times since 2009, I don’t think it’s the best example in this situation.)

It would say mostly nice things. Happy things. But are they real things? What about the nitty-gritty things you gloss over to give yourself a more lustrous, shiny-person façade?

I’m happy to say I have a lot of Facebook friends who don’t give their lives a coating of glossy-goodness. They are willing to share the ups and the downs and the good and the bad. As my friend Candice would say, “The struggle is real” and they don’t try to hide it. I applaud them.

And so I will copy them, in my own way. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, no?

Things I am a bit borderline ashamed of and/or insecure about and have largely neglected to include as part of my online persona:

1. Toe hairs. It’s a tiny bit weird and a lot gross but long, black hairs spring from my big toes. I shave them, so next time you see me and I’m wearing sandals, don’t bother trying to sneak a peek. Believe it or not, however, I’m thankful for my toe hairs. Any time I start feeling a little too pretty, I see them and am brought back down to earth. I’m 99% sure that Kate Upton does not have toe hairs.
2. At least four days a week I go to bed without removing my eye makeup. (Sometimes I don’t even wash my face. Yuck.) Some blogs tell me this will make my eyelashes fall out or my skin fall off. So far, so good. A lot of times I wake up looking like a raccoon. Who was punched in the face.
3. I’ve lived at my house for two years and have not once used the clothesline. I will occasionally drape large blankets and sheets over my deck railing, but hang up cloths? Never. I find this sad because I try to be (somewhat) eco-conscious and using my dryer from the 1980s can NOT be the most efficient means of drying laundry. I did not have a dryer at the place I lived before and so EVERYTHING was hung up to dry. Let me tell you how un-fun it is to pin up wet cloths when it’s 35 degrees out. So maybe I’m making up for lost time. Or maybe I’m scarred. Either way, it’s just a neglected lawn ornament at this point. But I will use that clothesline. Some day.
4. I have eaten (on more than one occasion) an entire box of macaroni and cheese. In one sitting. If it’s been a particularly bad day, I’ll add a chopped up hot dog to the mix. That’s a lot of pasta. And a lot of cheese. And a lot of weird dreams that night.
5. I still have a Christmas decoration hanging up in my house. Haha, sike! I’m in no way ashamed of that.
6. I once left an empty bottle of shampoo to languish on my shower floor for weeks. It was there. I would see it. I would think to myself, “I really need throw that away”. And then I would kick it out of eyesight and forget about it. What does this say about my housekeeping skills?
7. I’m 31 years old and completely intimidated by teenagers today. They all seem super mature and super confident and dress way more stylish than I do. When I was that age, my fashion accessories were big bangs, big glasses, and a nice new set of shiny braces to help reign in my “vampire teeth”. A boy in school actually called them that- just out of the blue. “You have vampire teeth”, he said, and then walked away. I think I ate my lunch in the bathroom every day that week.
8. I have a gym membership. I committed for a year so I’m charged every month. I have a duffle bag holding clothes for the gym in the back of my jeep. That bag has been sitting there for three months. Three. Months.
9. If a person dies on TV or in a movie, I’m good. If the family pet or the racehorse or the random bunny rabbit crossing the road bites the dust, bring me the biggest box of tissues you can find. I end up looking like a cold hearted witch. So as a general rule, if the preview shows just the hint of a wagging tail, it is blacklisted immediately. I can’t take that chance.
10. I don’t “do selfies” often. And the last time I tried it took about 24 attempts to get one where I didn’t have three chins or squinty eyes. How do people do it?
11. But what shames me most of all, more than the toe hairs or the abandoned shampoo bottle, was during that aforementioned self-photo-shoot, I tried a shot sporting duck lips. Duck lips. It did not end well.

It’s a relatively mild list, not a whole lot of nitty-gritty, but it’s a start. And who knows? Maybe my struggles and insecurities are yours, too. And if they aren’t, you probably have some of your own.

But if you have none, then you and I are probably not going to be friends and I hope you wake up with toe hairs tomorrow.

Crazy Cat Lady: An [Incomplete] History

In my last post, I Love Online Dating, I slipped in a joke about receiving an offer for cat food when my profile was compatible with zero matches. That’s right. ZERO. So of course that’s where my mind went: Single woman = cat woman.  Seemed like a natural progression of thought.

And then a few days later I got to thinking about that joke and the stereotype in general. What are the origins? Who decided that a single woman with one or two feline companions is crazy? Why is it limited to cats and not dogs or birds or guinea pigs? What about women who own snakes? Snakes! If that’s not crazy, I don’t know what is.

So I decided to do a little research.

I began by consulting two very reliable internet sources: Urban Dictionary and Wikipedia.

There are twelve definitions for the term cat lady on Urban Dictionary. My favorite by far is this:

“A lady who suffers from a horrible childhood, with nobody to love, besides stray cats that dig in the family’s garbage. Soon discovers cats are her friends and she enjoys talking, petting, and going to the movies with these cats. …Tends to have many wrinkles. And unwashed grease ball hair. And love to eat potatoes.”

(Let me just say, if loving to eat potatoes makes me a cat lady, then a cat lady I shall be.)

Wikipedia echoes the same sentiments but in a slightly more polite manner:

 “…women who own cats have long been associated with the concept of spinsterhood. In more recent decades, the concept of a cat lady has been associated with “romance-challenged (often career-oriented) women.”

Neither of these were much help.

So I turned to Google and found this little gem of an article: Woman-as-Cat in Anti-Suffrage Propaganda.

“Cats represented the domestic sphere, and anti-suffrage postcards often used them to reference female activists. The intent was to portray suffragettes as silly, infantile, incompetent, and ill-suited to political engagement…oftentimes, unhappy cats were portrayed in these scenes as symbols of a threatened traditional home in need of woman’s care and attention.”

Let’s review. Women with only the vote on their minds + cat themed propaganda = threat to traditional home = anti-marriage = spinster = single women = single women with cats = crazy cat lady.

The actual article explains it much better, plus it has some great pictures of anti-voting cats. Who doesn’t love that? Check it out here.

And apparently there is some scientific proof that exposure to cats can make you crazy. A Czech biologist, Jaroslav Flegr, has studied the parasite toxoplasma gondii, a tricky little pest that “jumps” from one cat to another and sometimes lands on humans by way of litter box contact, contaminated waters, and undercooked meat. There’s a lot of scientificy-mumble-jumble that you’re more than welcome to read for yourself here. But to sum it up, toxo can manipulate the way our brains act and cause some “crazy” reactions.

Seems like a stretch, but he’s a man. And probably a Socialist.

Further Googling yielded little else: The pros and cons of being a cat lady. How do you know if you’re a cat lady? Bio information for Simpsons character Eleanor Abernathy. And the 2009 documentary, Cat Ladies which has a surprisingly high rating on IMDb.com.

So where does that leave us, the unmarried and childless females of a certain age who, coincidentally, also have cats? Here are my thoughts:

1. Cats are badass. So to be associated with cats is NOT the worst thing in the world. They take crap from no one. They don’t perform silly tricks for treats. They make their own rules. And then they break them because they can. Dogs will wag their tales in obedience, eager to please. Cats be like… Human, please. If they could roll their eyes, they would.
2. It’s OK if you talk to your cats. Chances are, you’d be talking to yourself if they weren’t there. And that’s the kind of crazy you should worry about.
3. There are few things in life more wonderful than a group of cats and a laser pointer.
4.  We don’t have to worry about mice and rats chewing up our cereal boxes. Or bunnies chewing up our vegetable gardens. Or lizards or spiders. Or song birds. Because cats have a superiority complex and if they can kill it, they will. They will, however, make friends with possums so they aren’t completely bloodthirsty. (For the record, the number of slain sparrows does make me sad.)
5. This list.
6. And finally, there are plenty of non-cat owning people who are bat-crap crazy. Lindsey Lohan. Miley Cyrus. Charles Manson. Need I go on?

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to curl up with a bowl of popcorn and a movie. The cats have been dying to watch Finding Nemo.

I Love Online Dating

“I just love on-line dating!”

Find me a person – a real, living, oxygen inhaling person who has ever uttered those words.

Sure, if it works out it could be the greatest thing to ever happen to you. But that’s the end result you love, not the process. The process is a soul sucking exercise in humble perseverance. It requires patience- patience in abundance. Patience to suffer through the endless ridiculousness of people who hold themselves in very high esteem and have used every single space available in their “About Me” section to list every virtue, achievement, skill, and epic bowel movement that has ever happened in their very exciting and very fulfilled lives.

At the other end of the spectrum are the profiles run by what I can only assume to be lonely Neanderthals. You can identify them by their frequent use of the following:

1. The use of “u” instead of “you”
2. Fish lip photos (yep, guys take them too)
3. The use of “2” for the words “to” or “too”
4. Every single photo they have uploaded is some variation of their unsmiling selves flexing in front of various pieces of gym equipment
5. When they message you with “waz up?” and nothing more (makes a girl feel special)
6. Inability to express any type of thought in a complete and coherent sentence

(On second thought, comparing them to Neanderthals is a bit rude. At least Neanderthals gave us fire.)

And so I don’t sound like a complete snob, some of those can be acceptable – under the right circumstances. For example, when texting, numbers 1 and 3 could be appropriate- “could be” being the key words. But when you are trying to put your best foot forward in an introductory message or describing yourself, please just push the two or three extra keys required to spell the entire word. It makes a world of difference. I promise. Numbers 2, 4, 5, and 6? Nope.Never.

I’ve dabbled on various online dating sites over the years. I’ll actively interact for approximately a week or two before I get bored with the whole process and disengage. That is until I feel my biological clock ticking or re-watch “Love, Actually” and then I’m suddenly reminded that online dating might be the only chance I will ever, ever have and immediately rejoin or reactivate my membership.

The first site I signed up for made me take a really long personality test. I answered as well I could, filled out all the required information, and waited as the screen read “Just a minute! We’re connecting you with some great matches!” My excitement grew as I envisioned the mysterious and handsome young men who would float across my computer screen.

After what seemed like an hour, but in reality was really only a few minutes, the text was replaced by: “Sorry. There are no matches in our database for you at this time. Check back soon, we have new members join every day.” What it was really saying was: “Your personality is just not compatible with any of our 10 million active users across the entire continental US and Canada and you will probably die alone.” This was followed by an online coupon for cat food.

I exaggerate, but only a little; that first part was very much true. And, much to my relief, within a week they had finally managed to match me up with other members who might find me tolerable. But that’s when the real fun began.

Do you remember that old school SkiFree game that came installed on Microsoft computers? Online dating is like that Slalom Course: No matter how hard you try to maneuver around those obnoxious, narrow spaced flags and make it to the finish line intact, your poor little skier is a bruised, broken, flag-slapped mess. And then you run out of lives and the game is over.

As mentioned above, there are definite groups of online dating users. Based on my experience I would guess approximately 45% of them land in Group One- slick lipped and puffed up; another 45% in the Neanderthal category. These are the groups to avoid. That leaves a paltry 10% of users who have a basic grasp of English grammar, relatively sane and happy looking profile pictures, no bathroom selfies, and a simple and succinct self-summary of their likes, dislikes, and match preferences to make up Group Three. Those are who you zone in on.

Occasionally an uncategorized user will pop up, somewhat of a cross between all three groups. Most of his profile pictures appear to be from a low budget fashion shoot at a local gym, but at least he’s smiling. And even though he is a self-professed savant who can enjoy the finer things in life, he also loves dogs and his adorable niece and has read Jane Austen and enjoyed it. He is an anomaly and should be approached with caution.

Obviously, I haven’t had much luck with online dating. And maybe if I used it a bit more regularly and put in a bit of effort I would actually be writing about how I Love Online Dating. But, as this is not the case, I say kudos and congratulations to all of you who have found true love using the World Wide Web.

And double kudos and double congratulations for never having to use it again.

Potty Humor

My job sends me on the road quite a bit. During a typical week I will average roughly 500 miles. That seems like a lot. Maybe to some it isn’t. I don’t mind it – audiobooks have become my new BFF and I’ve gotten a lot of “reading” done since I took this position. Can you consider an audiobook something you have “read”? I often wonder that. Anyway, I digress. This post has nothing to do with audiobooks.

 

This summer I’ve been splitting my time between being on the road and working out of the Milford office. My car thanks me. On those days my commute is a sweet 15 minutes at most. It’s a serene drive down 36 and into town. I wave at the group of old men clustered outside Dolce every morning. They are adorable. Again, I digress. This post has nothing to do with adorable old men outside of coffee shops.

 

Back in 2001-2002, every radio station known to man was playing Counting Crow’s version of “Big Yellow Taxi”. I think they even collaborated with Vanessa Carlton and her I’m-trying-way-too-hard-voice. (Why you gotta mess with Joni Mitchell?) I hated the song.  And yet, I still find myself humming parts of it to this day. “Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone…”  

 

Do you wonder yet where I’m going with this? I have a point. I promise.

 

When your car is your office you begin to realize the little things you took for granted:  Coworkers to chat with. The freedom to stand and stretch at will. Easy access to drinking water that hasn’t potentially reached the boiling point while sitting in the middle console.  But most of all . . . Bathrooms.

 

Finding a public restroom is like embarking on a treasure hunt. You plot your course, stay alert for dangerous perils (New Jersey drivers), and pray earnestly that fortune smiles upon you and your quest. It’s an especially daunting pursuit when you’re in the bowels of Wilmington. (See what I did there?)

 

In every other city/town/suburb that has a Wawa, there is always a public restroom. Except Wilmington. Their Wawa’s do not have public restrooms. Granted, it is very likely that I keep stumbling across the same two or three so I shouldn’t speak for Wilmington Wawas in general.  But it makes me physically angry when I see the familiar red letters, only to be greeted by a postage-stamp sized building with one cash register and one grumpy attendant who tells me (probably for the fifteenth time that day) that there are no public restrooms.

 

All that to say, this is why I find myself singing “Big Yellow Taxi”; I didn’t know that being literally five steps from the bathroom door was something I would miss. It’s true. I didn’t know what I had ‘til it was gone.

 

While finding a public restroom is like embarking on a treasure hunt, the end result is the real treat. (You’re reading this so you can’t hear the tone of my voice when I say that. It was sarcastic, if that helps.) You suffered through traffic jams and missed exits only to be disappointed. Never mind the usual nose-crinkling aspects of communal toilets. Those are easy fixes that can be treated with a good dose of Clorox and a roll of Brawny.

 

Let’s all just agree that the ideal public restroom does not exist. Some are better than others, but 95% of them have at least one major flaw. And as I consider myself somewhat of a coinsurer on the matter (a title I’m super proud of) I thought I would list my findings here:

 

1. Cracks. No, not those. It’s not that kind of Potty Humor. What other door in the world has such a gaping space between it and the wall? Front doors, cabinet doors, bedroom doors, locker doors, car doors… They all manage to avoid the dreaded “peep crack”. But a bathroom stall door? The one place where you want all the privacy that is humanly possible? I don’t understand.

 

2. Center, please. I want to meet the shmo who can’t install a toilet in the center of the stall. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I would just prefer my face not be smashed up against one side while there’s room for a small family to move in on the other.

 

3. It’s all in the door. I understand it’s safer for bathroom stall doors to open in, not out. But it’s maddening and difficult to maneuver yourself, your purse, and whatever else you’ve got along (I imagine it’s a real pain in the you-know-what with kids), when the door opens inward. There have been many times when I’ve nearly lost an arm trying to avoid the dreaded back-of-leg-to-toilet-contact, only to get tangled up in the bags hanging from the hook as I try to escape. It’s like my own personal Shawshank, without the Morgan Freeman narration. That would be just weird.

 

4. Automatic TP. I know the big debate on Facebook and in homes around the world is which direction toilet paper should roll. Over? Under? Who cares? I’m just concerned that it’s there. The new thing now is automatic tp dispensers. Just like its paper towel counterpart, you wave your hand under the sensor and it hums out some squares. How many? Approximately two. Sure, it’s a great way to keep things sanitary and control the amount of bath tissue that people waste. But they are noisy. And a giveaway. If you hear the person next to you triggering the automatic tp one too many times, you might not want to linger much longer.

 

5. Direction is everything. Single stall bathrooms can be a real joy. Total privacy, no peep cracks here. Except when the toilet is directly facing the door. And that door opens up into a busy waiting room or foyer or office space. Then it’s just awkward. And slightly terrifying. Did I lock the door properly? What if I didn’t pull the door shut tight? Oh my gosh, how many people are standing just outside that door?! At this point you’re pretty much helpless and you pray with all your might you get out of there with your dignity intact.

I now feel like I need to create some sort of task force to deal with this problem. Maybe I could pitch a new reality/makeover show to TLC or HGTV.  “Big Yellow Taxi” could be playing during the opening credits. And Morgan Freeman could narrate. Nothing weird about that at all.

 

 

How Little We Understand

Socrates once said, “True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us.” So in the pursuit of true wisdom, here are the things I just don’t understand:

1. Litter. C’mon, people. There are trash receptacles everywhere. Gas stations. Supermarkets. Restaurants. Chain stores. Your home. Your neighbors bin out by the curb. They are there. I promise.

I stopped by Redners this evening after work and was positively flummoxed by the amount of debris in the parking lot. Scraps of paper, crumpled up receipts, lottery tickets, cigarette butts, plastic wrap, and…well, you get the picture. Meanwhile, shiny trash cans waited patiently at both doors, looking a bit lonely and empty inside. Poor, sad trash cans.

I never litter. And I mean, NEVER. I’m a courteous human being. I respect Mother Nature. If I’m on the road and have something that should be thrown away, I don’t toss it out the window like some caveman. No. I toss it in my back seat like a GOOD human should. Junk mail? Back seat. That bill I’m trying desperately to ignore? Back seat. Empty bag of M&M’s? Back seat. The box of trail mix I bought on my quest for healthy snacking but haven’t opened in three months? Yep, that’s where it is.

I had someone in my passenger seat on coffee run today. I shifted piles of junk to make room for her and we chuckled at my abysmal car-keeping habits. As she scooted aside a much forgotten plastic container of dried apricots with her left foot and laughed at the caramel now melting onto the middle console, I felt pretty darn good about myself. I don’t litter. And it shows. You’re welcome, earth.

 

2. People who don’t like dogs. Does this need explaining? Dogs are never in a bad mood. And even if they’re a bit pissy, you just have to give them a treat and BOOM, happy wagging tail is back (I am much the same way, minus the tail). 

Sure, they eat your last roll of toilet paper, occasionally chew up an electrical cord, and leave mangled rawhides right by your bed at the precise place your bare feet touch the ground each morning. Sometimes they leap onto your lap when you’re trying to adjust your contact lens. Many times they zag when they should have zigged and become a stumbling block in your too-tiny kitchen. But they’re sweet. And always loveable.

And they don’t judge you if you don’t get out of bed on a Saturday until 11am and then proceed to watch Looney Toons until noon…before taking a much needed nap and then finally changing out of your PJ’s and brushing your teeth.

Tomorrow I have to give up Luke, the foster dog I’ve been taking care of for the last several weeks and I am a sad, sad mess. Here’s hoping he does something really obnoxious tonight that will ease our parting.

 

3. Lotion gunk. Nothing grosses me out more, and I mean NOTHING, than pumping your lotion, moisturizer, shampoo, etc. and having a small chunk of dried up gunk land in your hand. Why is it always there? And how do I get rid of it? Why does it skeeve me out so much? 

It’s especially fun when it’s your shampoo. And you’re pumping. And you’re shaking the bottle. And nothing is coming out. Until.. blam…a nasty little lotion chunk, followed by the entire contents of the bottle which you are now trying to scoop back into its container because you finally sprung for the “good stuff” and you need it to last as long as humanly possible.

Lotion gunk. Yuck.

 

4. Common Core Math. Apparently nobody else understands it either. I’m still trying to learn the “old” math. Thanks for changing it up on me.

 

5. And finally, Squash and Zucchini. I understand them as vegetables. I love them. They are my most favorite summer-time gourd. I understand you can make zucchini bread and squash casserole and grill ‘em and sauté ‘em and create all sorts of marvelous and delicious dishes. What I do NOT understand is their sporadic and unpredictable growth spurts. It goes something like this:

 

             Monday, July 2. Dear Diary, the squash and zucchini are growing nicely. They are measuring approximately 6 inches long and will be ready to eat soon. Hurray!

            Tuesday, July 3. Dear Diary, the squash and zucchini haven’t done much since yesterday. I found a few more hiding in the back. They also measure approximately 6 inches long.

            Wednesday, July 4. Dear Diary, still no bigger. Wonder what’s up with that?

            Thursday, July 5.Dear Diary, is it possible that my squash and zucchini are shrinking?!

            Friday, July 6.Dear Diary, today I checked my garden and all the squash and zucchini seem to be laughing at me. It’s like they know.

            Saturday, July 7. Dear Diary. I have approximately twenty-five squash and zucchini that are all the size of a small child and are now inedible. I hate those stupid gourds.

            Sunday, July 8. Dear Diary, parts of my garden “accidentally” caught fire last night.

 

 True wisdom, here I come.

A list.

What’s better than a list?

[silence]

Exactly.

Nothing, I say nothing is better than a list.  Give it bullet points, give it numbers, give it wing-dings galore. Type it up. Write it up. Laminate it. Stick it on your refrigerator or closet door. College ruled notebook paper or flowery doodle pads, if there’s space to write… there’s space for lists.

So I’ve renamed the blog. I thought it was only fitting since the previous name no longer applied (Thirty going on 30), and because my love of lists is matched only by my great appreciation for long naps and frozen York Peppermint Patties.

Writing is so much simpler in list format. And, by giving the blog such a vague and ill-defined title, I’m not limiting myself with regards to what I can write about. On Monday I could present my top 10 ideas for solving the crisis in the Gaza Strip. On Tuesday, a riveting piece on my favorite kinds of pie. Most posts will probably fall somewhere in the middle.

Truly though, the best part of the list-format is that I no longer feel the pressure to add a “closing statement”; the final paragraph that wraps everything up in a nice little conclusion bundle. For me, that’s the hardest part. The beginning can be difficult. And the middle is a bit rough. But the ending… I do not care for them. With a list, you spell out your final item and you’re on your merry way. Hurray for no conclusions!

And so, to kick things off, I present:

The Five Things I Vow to do with this Blog

1. Update it once a week. Yes, my friends. Once a week. See that title? It says Vow. So it’s fo’real.
2. Never get too serious. No surprise there. If you know me at all, I’m seldom serious and have an unchecked compulsion to drop a “that’s-what-she-said” joke whenever I’m given the chance. There are enough depressing blogs and articles to read online- no need to add another to the mix.
3. BUT, do get serious if the situation calls for it.
4. Honesty. I’m pretty good at keeping (most) of my opinions to myself on social media sites. I want to be liked.  I don’t want controversy. I don’t want people to think I’m some silly twit. And I don’t want to stoke the fires of ridicuously long and drawn out Facebook debates. But, I’m nearly 31 and it’s probably time that I get over my fear of giving my thoughts on “hot topics”. So I might give my opinon on gay marriage. Or Hobby Lobby. Or the Kardashians. Who knows where the lists will take me.
5. And finally, I vow to make all this as interesting as possible because every comment, every share and view is like crack-cocaine to a blogger. I gotta have it, man. So whatever it takes.

And in conclusion. . . oh, wait.

🙂

Jenny Scott’s A Series of Unfortunate Events

It began like most Mondays. A grumble. A groan. The snooze button hit once (or twice..or more. Who’s counting).

I generally do nothing but the bare minimum in the morning until I’ve had my coffee. I can’t be trusted to make wise, sound decisions without it. But no caffeine today, sadly. Inspired by my cousin-in-law, Amanda, I decided to tackle Dr Oz’s 3 Day Detox Program. Drink a bunch of shakes, have some tea, pop some vitamins and POOF. Toxins gone.

So, tea it is. I hadn’t bothered to put my contacts in yet. Or my glasses. But I staggered out to the kitchen, jiggled the kettle to make sure there was water in it, and flipped on the burner.

And as I’m drying my hair and watching I Love Lucy in my vanity mirror, I smell something funny. Irk.

Before & After

I race to the kitchen (slight exaggeration; my bedroom is literally two steps away, but it sounds much more exciting this way, no?). There’s smoke everywhere and the dogs are barking and the alarm is going and I said “Lawd Jesus, it’s a fire!” (If you don’t get that reference, see me after class). My beautiful burner cover. My beautiful, bright, surprisingly cute Walmart-purchase burner cover was aglow, while the kettle sat pertly by, room temperature and un-whistling. I had turned on the wrong burner. Sigh. Strike 1.

 

Time for the shakes. I chopped and I peeled and I squeezed an alarming mixture of fruits and vegetables that should never be consumed at the same time. One for breakfast. One for lunch. Breakfast turned out to be a dull, maroon colored concoction. Lunch? An acid green did-I-accidentally-blend-up-a-Leprechaun drink that had the texture of old, wet sand you find in your beach umbrella. I love my Ninja, but a juicer it aint.

Time to leave for work. After checking and double checking and triple checking that all burners were in the off position, I let the dogs out (finally, an answer to the age old question), and realized 1) no more snow?! and 2) it’s warm! A quick glance at the weather (61 degrees, you say?), and the heat goes off and the windows go up and I trot out the door, two shakes in hand.

And that, obviously, was another strike. Because it wasn’t until I arrived at work that I realized temps were to drop 5 degrees every hour. That’s something to look forward to.

So I spent the first three hours at work sipping slowly, delicately, begrudgingly on the maroon colored breakfast shake, all the while fantasizing about a waffle smothered in syrup. The lunch hour hovered closer and closer and I periodically peaked inside the refrigerator, the plastic tumbler emitting an otherworldly green glow. I knew the battle had been lost.

The Bible says man shall not live by bread alone, but by the word of God. What it doesn’t’ say is that man shall also not live on chunky, odd colored meal supplements. So six hours after starting, I unceremoniously ended my detox with a cheese steak. Strike 3. (At some point I will procure a juicer and try this again. Maybe I’ll make it through the first day next time.)

When I returned home in the evening, it was a balmy 46 degrees inside and the scent of burning metal still lingered in the arctic air. Talk about motivation to not sit. I cleaned like I’ve never cleaned before and warded off frost-bite simultaneously. Small win for me.

Three strikes and you’re out, right? Apparently that only applies to baseball because my evening was topped off by a slip on the iced over deck and a mishap with a cabinet door. Neither ankle or nose suffered visible damage. Another small win. I’ll take what I can get.

Here’s hoping your Monday wasn’t quite as unfortunate.

New Year….

….. same me.

Completely pessimistic? Or just realistic?

I’ve always been one for New Year’s Resolutions. I like the idea of writing down a personal goal checklist for the upcoming year on a nice, clean white piece of paper….

…Whoops, I spelled something incorrectly. I better re-write it…What if I instead wrote the list on the first few pages of a new journal-then I track my progress throughout the year…I need to buy a journal…Barnes and Noble has the best, I need to go to Salisbury…Nah, I don’t think I want to keep it in a journal, maybe on my computer…Should I use Word or Evernote?…Actually, I’m going to type the list up in fun fonts and post it on my refrigerator so I can see it every day…Hmm, it’s Wednesday. I think I’ll start keeping these resolutions on Monday; new week, fresh start…On second thought, I don’t want that list for all to see. I’m going to hand-write it again and keep it in my nightstand. Those fonts just aren’t fun anymore… 

…And I look up and it’s March 25th and those resolutions are collecting dust bunnies under the bed because that’s where the final list landed and I haven’t bothered to yet retrieve it. Ironically, cleaning under the bed was probably on that list.

Sigh. There’s always next year.

So this go-round, I want things to be different.

First and foremost, I need to shake loose the incredible amount of pressure I put on myself. New Year’s Day isn’t an episode of Extreme Makeover or Biggest Loser or any other variety of reality “make-me-it-he-she-better-happier-thinner” television show. Nothing magical is going to happen when the clock strikes midnight. I don’t think I’ll suddenly have the urge to go for a late night run after reorganizing my attic and removing all chocolate from the house. I don’t know if any of those things would even happen in the first week. And that’s okay. “Resolution” is a course of action determined or decided on (so sayeth freedictionary.com). It’s a journey. Nobody is expecting me to kick my bad habits in one day.

Second, I want to rethink what I’m adding to this “course of action”, or more importantly, how I’m presenting it. When I jot things down like ‘Lose Weight’, ‘Exercise More’, ‘Get Organized’, ‘Spend Less’…am I really just making a list of all the ways I feel I have failed during the previous year?  Seems like a crummy way to start 2014, bringing all that baggage to the party.

Third, I don’t want to be counting down the minutes to 2015 with the ghost of Resolutions Past hanging over my head. The world will not end if I went the entire year without cracking open the copy of War and Peace that has been sitting on my bookshelf for the last three years, mocking me. 

I was Google-ing alternatives to New Year’s resolutions and stumbled across this great article, Five Things You Can Do Instead of New Year’s Resolutions. I particularly liked numbers two (List your favorite memories and triumphs of 2013), four (Make a list of what you are grateful for in your life), and five (Make a 2014 commitment to someone else).

I don’t know about you, but I can’t recall a time when my resolutions list wasn’t all about me-me-me.

So after some thought, I’ve come up with my 2014 Course of Action. I  reserve the right to add to (as well as remove from) this list at any time of my choosing. I will remind myself that I have 364 days left in this year. I will remember that there will be some days, like today, when this all seems exciting and shiny and realistic,…and other days when I will think the entire concept is complete bollocks. And that’s okay.

1. In 2014, I would like to do three things that scare me. I don’t know what they would be; singing in public, speaking to a group larger than two people, going spelunking? But if the opportunity presents itself to try something terrifying, I want to do it.
2. In 2014, I would like to read through the entire Bible. (I fought the urge to write “finally read through…”. Positive energy, only).
3. In 2014, I would like to write to my Sponsor Child on a regular basis. Truth be told, I’ve been sponsoring a child from India for several months and haven’t written her a single letter. I didn’t think it mattered much until I was speaking with my good pals Kelly and Lee; she’s actually been asked to write to children whose sponsors don’t write them. Turns out it does matter.
4. In 2014, I would like to be less selfish with my time.
5. In 2014, I would like to be a better listener and slower responder-er. (I’m pretty sure that’s not actually a word, but it conveys what I’m trying to say.)
6. In 2014, I would like to limit the amount of time I spend on my phone, particularly when I’m with friends or family. My Facebook feed can wait. That text message doesn’t need to be read immediately. I don’t have to respond to every buzz, beep, and ding. I want to be present, in the present, with those who are present.
7. In 2014, I would like to run a 5k.
8. In 2014, I would like to eat less processed foods and cook a bit more. Maybe even buy a cookbook and prepare something I’ve never had before.
9. In 2014, I would like to focus on one project at a time, big or small, and complete it before moving on to the next.
10. In 2014, I would like to spend less time on brain-numbing-television (which hurts. I love my DVR!), and more time tackling the stacks of books I promised myself I would get to last year, and the year before, and the year before that.

Ten seems like a nice, round number to start off the new year.

So, as January 1, 2014 comes to a close, I’m going to kick back and eat a bag of salt-n-vinegar chips and watch the season premier of Dance Moms. Because even though it’s a new year, it’s still the same me. And that’s okay.