Blue Moon ... you saw me standing alone ...

I have fallen in love. Yes, I’ve fallen in love with the TLC Chewy Dark Chocolate Granola Bar. For those of you wondering if I have officially lost it, the answer is a resounding yes. Perhaps it is because I’ve spent countless dollars in search of a healthy, on-the-go breakfast bar, only to find myself sorely disappointed over and over and over again while I pondered the unfairness of such while chewing aimlessly on a cardboard food imposter. But these? Love, it is true love, I swear. Plus, an excuse to have chocolate for breakfast? What isn’t to love? Kate and I went to Target yesterday and were on sale for $2.50 per box. I did what any irrational person who eats the same thing for breakfast everyday would do … I bought every box on the shelf. The cashier eyed my cart of granola bars, toilet paper, stickers, granola bars, and granola bars. His eyes said WOMAN, don’t you realize you negate the healthy aspect when you consume 400 of them?



This is not an advertisement for Kashi, Kashi doesn’t even know who I am. Although, I argue that they should, since I singlehandedly keep their cereal, cracker, and granola bar business solvent. Kashi, do you hear me? My only beef about these is that they aren’t organic. Considering I was raised on Wonder Bread and Spaghetti-O’s and still turned out semi-normal (emphasis on the semi), I think I can live with non-organic.

This brings me to my second love:



I’m not even typically a beer drinker, but something about the warm weather and warm red wine makes me want to gag a little. Okay, just on really warm days, the other 350 days of the year, red wine it is. But this beer? I’m in love all over again. I have imaginarily made it calorie-free and organic, so indulge as you wish.

I think there is something seriously concerning about my two favorite obsessions. It is sort of like going to McDonalds and ordering three Big Mac’s and a Diet Coke.

I shouldn't be allowed in public

I am not sure when my hair got so long. I swear, it multiplied while I was sleeping. Or, someone is sneaking Miracle Grow into my shampoo. I am not sure which of those two it is, but it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that the only place my hair goes is up into a haphazard pony tail most days. Even more absurd is thinking it has anything do with fact that I haven’t really dried or straightened my hair in months. When I dried it and straightened it today, I was astounded to discover the extra foot of hair I acquired.

Today I was also wearing a shirt with a much deeper neckline than I traditionally sport. You know, one that could technically be classified as cleavage-revealing on someone else. However, on me, it’s just a shirt with an awkwardly low neckline and no cleavage to be found.

After work, I decided to stop and get something to eat prior to teaching (you know, work #2, what supports the shopping habit I have). I had some extra time and went into a little café to savor some quiet time and a good meal before class. Dining alone doesn’t bother me at all. Despite that, dining alone is disconcerting due to the occasional gauche reaction from a fellow diner, which makes me feel like I should be uncomfortable dining alone. Apparently my solo dining status is of greater concern to them than it is to me. Those people apparently don’t recognize the beauty of quiet time. So, dining alone does provide some level of awkwardness as a semi-questionable social activity in the public eye.

So, I am sitting in the café, inconspicuously eating my Cherry Chicken Salad, when I feel something crawl down the front of my shirt.

I might have yelped a little loudly.

I might have began wildly patting, brushing, and beating my chest.

I might have stood up, attempting to fling this predatory creature from my body utilizing effort that should be reserved for evicting a swine-flu carrying visitor.

Much too late, I might have realized that it was a perfectly lovely strand of hair that had rather unexpectedly migrated into the front of my shirt.

Disclaimer: Might make your brain hurt

I mean, the whole post might make your brain hurt. I couldn't be more discombobulated if I tried.

[After an inordinate amount of time had passed waiting for Craig to come out of the gas station.]

CRAIG: Ugh. That took forever.
ME: Uh huh.
CRAIG: There was this guy in line ahead of me and he was paying for his gas. He only got $8.75 in gas because that is all the money he had. I felt bad.
ME: Okay.
CRAIG: And then he paid for it all in change, counting out all $8.75 in change.
KATE: Wow, he has A LOT of change!

I love that kids look at things so literally, forcing us to see things from a different point of view. Still, I couldn’t help but bristle at the whole conversation and realize just ignorant we can be and how much we take what we have for granted. You think I am going all Lifetime movie on you, right? Next up, the self-help book of positive affirmations. Believe me, this isn’t my typical train of thought, so it bears discussing. Anyway, it caught Craig off guard that someone would only get $8.75 in gas because ALL THEY HAD was $8.75. When we need gas, we fill up the tank, right?

I’ve spent the past month volunteering on a few HR related projects in the community. A portion of that time has been spent preparing soon-to-be graduates from local alternative ed high schools for job search and interviewing skills. Another portion of that time has been spent giving interview coaching and guidance to a segment of the chronically unemployed utilizing the welfare system. It is hard not to feel defeated when you are trying to provide motivation and encouragement to people in these situations. Let’s face it, in Michigan there are plenty of unemployed people with graduate degrees. I’m trying to offer hope to people with sparse education, criminal records, and undesirable work histories.

I’m so sick of this economy. I want to punch it in the face.

It just makes me realize how damn lucky I am that I can put $40 of gas in my car when I need it.

In changing my mindset to mirror the optimistic approach of my three-year old, I leave you with this:




Man, I love this kid!

Did you know that it is March 30th today?

My attempt to master time management consists of an awkward mixture of Microsoft Outlook and a Franklin Covey planner. The computer keeps track of my meetings and the planner gives me a place to put all my notes, reminders, messages, to-do’s, and basically anything that cannot be classified as a meeting. It isn’t pretty and I know all those time management professionals would shake their finger at me because the rule is to only use one system. I can’t stay organized with two, how on earth would I manage by only using one? Stupid people.

So, what does one do when they finally have time to open their planner on April 23rd and finds that it is still on March 30th?

a) Alternate between fits of hysterics, giggles, and maniacal snorts.

b) Simply turn the planner from March 30th to April 23rd and hope that everything contained in-between those pages were insignificant, redundant items.

c) Take a Xanax and ponder the absurdity of time management.

d) Quickly exclude mention of this item from the time management curriculum that you are about to teach.

e) Other

You know, I am just wondering. It happened to a friend of a friend and I am wondering what to tell her to do.

Where I address the obvious...

Disclaimer: Where the word "you" is simply my way of addressing the general public, not you, my wonderful blog readers who are possibly the only YOU this doesn't apply to.

I realize that once your only child reaches the age of 3, it opens the door to a multitude of questions regarding plans for the “next one”. So, it doesn’t take me by surprise when I get that question from family, friends, mere acquaintances, and members of the general public. Do I seem unsure when I reply? Perhaps I am not sure how to respond to you. Despite that, people continue to question me, the inflection of their words implying that maybe I haven’t given thought to this matter at all. Is it possible that item didn’t pop up on my Outlook to-do list this month and I need a gentle nudge? Or maybe I am unaware that at best, my children will now be at least four years apart. It was helpful to have you around to assist with the math.

So, if I look like I am unsure of what to say to you, it is because I am. I don’t want to tell you about the last 18 months of medical nightmares. I don’t want to talk about the poking, the prodding, the tests, and the medication. I don’t want to explain that even though nothing serious appears to me wrong with me, things just don’t want to cooperate. I don’t want to explain that it is a big messy mixture of issues related to my reproductive system and issues that are not. Let’s just say that Blue Cross Blue Shield may throw a party if I ever were to switch medical insurers.

I don’t also want to tell you that despite all that, we did manage to get pregnant. I don’t want to tell you that we lost that pregnancy after 12 weeks of excitement and anticipation. I didn’t tell you about it when it happened and I really don’t feel like telling you about it now. I also don’t want to talk about how much more difficult that was than I ever could have fathomed.

I don’t want to tell you that it is difficult to manage the obligations that I have right now and I am a little gun shy after the havoc that has surrounded this particular topic for me. It sounds selfish, doesn’t it? Well, it is the truth. I don’t want to tell you that having a husband who is gone more than he is home is hard. There are days when I feel like it takes all that I’ve got to be the best mom that I can be to Kate. I don’t want to tell you that being a good mom is hard work and there are days that increasing that work scares me. I am a realist, but I know those are not the answers you are searching for when you ask.

But because you don’t know any of this, you still ask. And I still struggle with what to say to you, because I am not sure when it will happen. I am not sure if it will happen. I am not sure if it is something that could happen even if I were certain that I wanted it to happen. I am not certain when I’ll be certain. One thing I am certain of is that I am okay with whatever happens. But I don’t want to tell you that, because you won’t believe me and many of you will feel like you need to fix something, or will need to offer awkward words of encouragement or assistance. Some days, I stop and think that maybe God gave me Kate simply because she’s the only one I’ll get. So, if I am only going to get one chance, he was going to make sure I got the best of the best. I’m okay with that.

It isn’t because I don’t want you know (hello, I am writing about it on the WORLD WIDE WEB), I just don’t have it in me to go there and quite frankly, it bugs me. So, I’ve decided that I need to find an answer for when people ask this question. Looking like a deer caught in the headlights, stumbling over my words, and lacking the ability to say anything hasn’t really been all that effective. With that, here are my proposed responses:

“The crack was so hard to give up with the last pregnancy. I’m not sure that I can make that sacrifice again.”

“We can’t decide if we want a boy or a girl, so we are going to wait until we can make up our mind.”

“Oh, we already have another one. I just keep forgetting where I left him. Adjusting to two has been so hard.”

“I’m not sure how to make it happen, I seem to have forgotten. Do you have some instructions you could give me?”

“Kate turned out perfect and we just don’t want to “chance it” again.” (wink wink)

“The maternity line this season is so not me. I’m going to wait and see if they come up with anything better next year.”

“We can’t afford daycare for two. I’m waiting until Kate’s old enough to stay home and take care of the baby, so maybe when she is six.”

If you have any other suggestions, I’d love to hear them. Since I seem to get this question daily, having an arsenal of replies at my disposal would be rather helpful. And since we're friends and all, care to dwell on your shortcomings, and any uncertainties of your future? It’s really quite cathartic.

Don't tell me you've never done anything stupid

The other day, Pooba posted a video entry about people who portray perfect lives on their blogs. Prefect house, perfect husband, perfect kids, perfect friends,the quintessential perfect life. While I know those people must exist, I couldn’t help but laugh at my inability to relate to it. It was like she was speaking a foreign language and I was having difficulty comprehending the mere concept. I’m sorry, could you please speak slower and enunciate; I am unfamiliar with this pseudo-perfectionism of which you speak.

Let’s be real here. A small percentage of my readers are people that I know in real life. There isn’t enough money in my bank account to bribe them to conspire with any attempt to convert my real life into some idealistic one. As for the remainder of you … if you believe that I try to depict any degree of perfectionism, I will be bold enough to suggest that you may need to take a remedial reading course of some sort. This phenomenon of ego blogging has been taking up valuable brain real estate over the past few days as I’ve pondered the absurdity of it. Accordingly, it was also on my mind as I prepared to share what happened to me yesterday.

On my way to work, I hurriedly grabbed my laptop and added it to the plethora of things teetering in my arms. My laptop had been residing on my kitchen counter this week, along with many other various non-kitchen related items. On a positive note, at least it was easily accessible and on my way to the door, right? Can you handle the perfectness here? I bet all Stepford women keep their laptops, toddler shoes, and week-old Easter candy on the kitchen counter, right? While I was scooping up my laptop, I reached out to grab the power cord as well. While I love my new laptop, the duration of the battery life is apparently in direct competition with the diminutive attention span of my three year old.

Upon arriving to my morning meeting, I settled in and opened my laptop. I politely requested outlet access from a colleague seated next to me. I then proceeded to to extract the CORD TO MY ELECTRIC GRIDDLE. If it weren’t for the Big Ben sized heat control dial, I may have been able to conceal the evidence. Move along people, nothing to see here. I contemplated mentioning that my plan was to whip out my griddle and prepare some banana pancakes for the meeting. Considering my sarcastic appointment as goddess of the kitchen, I believe that may have increased the comedic value of the whole situation.

I thought it was appropriate that to point out that other than the obvious, I am the absolute poster child of perfection.

At least I don't fart butterflies

Yesterday morning, I pulled up to the speaker at Starbucks, much like I do the other 364 days of the year, minus weekends and holidays.

Matt: Good morning Lyndsay.

Me: Good morning Matt.

Matt: The usual?

Me: Yes please.

Matt: I almost freaked out. I thought it wasn’t you after I said your name. It’s weird because every morning when you pull up, the sun is shining so bright and it is always right in your face. Half the time I can’t tell for sure if it’s you or not. I was worried I was going to say Lyndsay and it totally wasn’t going to be.

Me: Matt, that is just because I bring sunshine everywhere I go.

Matt: Of course you do. You burp rainbows too, right?

At that moment, I had a number of startling revelations. Matt is one of the only people that appreciates my humor and probably gives it back quicker than I can take it. Matt and I also know way too much about each other. He is training for a marathon. He frequents Target as much as I do (I mean did, shit, I’m supposed to be giving up Target, right?). He appreciates my quest to avoid all refined and artificial sweeteners. He and I are on a mission to convince Starbucks to offer Stevia in their stores, or in the very least sneak our own in to this particular store. He buys my coffee in the morning almost as often as I do. Most startling? I realized this morning that I see Matt more times per week than I see my husband. That is pathetic and shocking all in the same breath.

It is a good thing that I am married and Matt is gay, or this would have potential to be really awkward.

Five Bits and Pieces

Many moons ago (translation: six months), when I started this blog, Jeanne was one of my first faithful readers. She claims that she was drawn to my blog because of its title, but I prefer to believe it was strictly due to my magnetic personality. Regardless, she stuck around, which might mean she is of questionable character. Sorry about that Jeanne. In turn, I’ve spent a significant amount of time reading Jeanne’s blog. She’s a damn good writer. Seriously. On top of that, she’s smart, she’s funny, and she likes to have a good time. I think we might be long lost relatives. I’ve officially adopted Jeanne as my second mother; I’m hoping she won’t even notice the newly sprouted branch on the family tree. Without further ado, I give you my first guest post ever … from Jeanne at the Raisin Chronicles.

Confession: I was initially attracted to “I Used to Be Witty” because of the title.

Does that sound shallow?

Over time, as I came to know Lyndsay through her terrific blog, I realized that our affinity runs much deeper. She doesn’t do crafts. She’s uncoordinated. And a scosh anal.

This is a woman after my own heart.

So when she sent out an SOS after struggling with a sick toddler for the past week, I was more than happy to help out with a guest post. Whether you’re brand new to this blog, or a long-time fan, there are a few things it may be useful to know about Lyndsay.

1) She is a goddess in the kitchen.

I turn my back to check the oven and return to finish mixing the batter. Can’t find the fork. Where is the damn fork? Kate points to the bottom of the batter. I mean, why wouldn’t you bury the fork in the bottom of the bowl? Mom looks like she needs tested, right? While retrieving the vanishing fork, Kate picks up a mangled, half-eaten, infested banana…and throws it into the bowl.

I inform Kate that we aren’t cooking these putrid muffins. She rebukes with shrieks that knock the earth just slightly out of orbit, so I oblige *shudder*.

2) She’s frugal.

Craig brought the Corian samples home from work and told me to pick out what I liked. He said that the Corian would be about $150 a sheet and we would only need one. I wanted something that tied into our gray and white theme, yet offered a little color. I am daring like that. After excruciating debate, I picked the PERFECT color and we special ordered it. Three weeks later, the bill came for the Corian and it was $595!!!

3) She tucks money away for Kate’s future at every opportunity.

After we had THE CONVERSATION about how we do not watch Sponge Bob, the babysitter actually had to place Kate in the other room to calm down so she could get Sponge Bob off of the TV. Whoops. When did she start listening so well? We will need to put some extra in the therapy fund to cover this one.

4) She likes an occasional cup of Starbucks coffee.

…the other day I pulled up and the Voice Within the Speaker said, "Grande Non-Fat Vanilla Latte?" People this is NOT GOOD. I am on a most wanted poster at Starbucks, complete with drink of choice.

5) She adores Trick-or-Treat.

The highlight of our night came when we got to one of the last few houses in the subdivision. The lady was handing out jawbreakers the size…of tennis balls. I’m serious. You could forgive someone without kids, who might not realize what a bad idea a crater sized jawbreaker would be to a toddler. However, this lady is the mother of SEVEN children. There is no excuse. So, then I started thinking of the whole ideology that with the first kid you sterilize their pacifier, with the second you wash it under tap water, and with the third you don’t even wipe it off. Apparently by the time you get to #7, there is nothing sacred.

So, now that you know her a little better, I hope you’ll come back when the lady of the house can entertain you herself.

Jeanne thanks for taking the time to work on a guest post for me. I’m now wondering when I developed such an addition to caps lock … note to self: work on finding more appropriate ways to get your point across. Only Jeanne would be creative enough to grab splices of my blog and piece them together to tell you about me. Is it scary I forgot that I wrote most of them? Now I'll move on to deciding which of the above revelations is most frightening.

I should probably be embarrassed about this, but I am not.

Is that concerning?

For years, Craig has taken great delight in mercilessly teasing me about my toes. They don’t bother me nearly as much as they bother him, and that alone bothers him much more than it should. Apparently people whose toe next to their big toe is longer than the big toe (no matter how I word that, it just doesn't come out right) deserve much scorn, shame, and embarrassment. Yes, my second toe … pointer toe … second in command to the big toe … in indeed the longest toe I have.

(Raise eyebrows here and crinkle your upper lip slightly)

I’m telling you this for a reason, I swear. Well, besides affirming to the world that I am even stranger than you initially thought and that Craig and I apparently have nothing better to talk about than my feet on a regular basis. Our conversations regarding my feet typically go like this:

CRAIG: Your feet are so weird.

ME: Come on Craig – you know what they say about people with toes like mine.

CRAIG: Um, nope. That you are weird.

ME: Yes, you do. Remember we have this conversation on a way too regular basis because you are freakishly obsessed with pointing out my unique attributes.

CRAIG: The weird ones?

ME: Ugh. It means that I am a LEADER, not a FOLLOWER.

CRAIG: No, it means you have square feet. You should just buy shoes, throw away the shoes and wear the boxes.

On a fairly regular basis, Craig returns to teasing me about my toes. A few years ago, in an attempt to irritate him even more about my toes, I realized something priceless. Do you know the dexterity you have with toes like this? I can expertly pick something up off the floor, with my feet, without even bending over. Craig can heckle me all he wants, but that is skill and is the epitome of multitasking and laziness all perfectly wrapped up in one. It also assists is a variety of stealth missions where retrieving an item from the floor, unbeknownst to others is an advantage.

Oh, what? How did that get up here? I don’t know. Did you pick it up? No, you didn’t bend over? Nope, me neither. Odd.

Not that I would ever think about actually using my toes to pick up things, but it is nice to know that I could, you know, if I ever needed to. Quadbidextrious? It’s been years since I’ve utilized this skill to annoy my husband. In fact, I sort of forgot about it in the arsenal of things I use TO DRIVE MY HUSBAND TO DELERIUM.

Until I turned around on vacation and saw this.



And moments later, this:



I watched as Craig looked at her. There was no way I could convince him that I hadn’t taught her that just to annoy her father. I swear, it must BE IN THE GENES. Who knows what that means for the poor kid? Teaching her to do that would have been sheer genius and there is no way I would be denying it if I could take the slightest bit of credit for it. Believe me.

And all my dear, dear husband could say was, “That’s great Lyndsay. She inherited your FINGERTOES!”

Deep in Thought

Awhile back, the consensus amongst some unnamed qualified medical professionals was that I should meditate. As someone who cannot sit still, I could not envision a more torturous endeavor than meditation. Sure, it sounds appealing in theory, but in reality it makes my jaw clench and my body convulse like nails on a chalkboard does. Apparently I possess some character traits like perfectionism, over commitment, an inability to say no, and the desire to keep constantly busy. I do not associate all of those with the disdain in which they have been addressed to me, similar to oh, people with homicidal tendencies and crack habits. However, in an effort to maximize my health, I’ve been repeatedly assured that I should meditate, even starting in small increments, and I would notice a significant benefit.

“Well, what do you mean by small increments?”

“You can just start by using a small portion of time in the morning to meditate. Relax and focus on your breathing, do not even try to do anything else - just breathe. Clear your mind and breathe.”

“But how long should I do it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just need to know how long I should try it for. I want to make sure I am doing it correctly.”

“Lyndsay, the fact that you need to apply your perfectionism, organization, and time constraints to meditation means you need it more than I initially thought,”

With that decree, I agreed to try meditation the following day. I woke up early … I normally wake up at 5:15, so I am not sure that early is the appropriate terminology for earlier than that. I drug myself out of bed and positioned myself to meditate.

Okay, focus on your breathing. In and out. In and out.
What happens if I fall asleep right here? My alarm is already off and I will be late for work. Work, what do I have to do at work today? I think financial statements are distributed today. Ugh.
Okay, stop thinking. Focus on your breathing. In and out. In and out.
That sundried tomato hummus we had last night was so good. I should pack some of it for lunch today. Oh, it would make a great appetizer for the baby shower too. The shower! I only have a couple of weeks until the shower and I haven’t even ordered a cake. I wonder if I would be breaking meditation rules if I opened my eyes long enough to write a note to remember to order cake today.
Shut up mind, shut up. We are supposed to be focusing on nothing, just breathing and relaxing. In and out. In and out.
I wonder how many minutes I have left. I don’t think I put the clothes in the dryer last night, so I can’t wear the pants I planned to wear. What should I wear instead? Is it supposed to be warm today again, or freeze your ass cold? Maybe we really should think about moving somewhere warmer. I’m totally going to develop Seasonal Affective Disorder if winter does not go away.
Okay, loser, you can’t even meditate right. Shut up. Breath in and out. In and out.
Wait, I’m not supposed to insult myself, am I? I think that defeats part of the purpose of this meditation business.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Is meditation supposed to make you crazy? Now that would certainly defeat the purpose.
Pay attention and breathe. Think about nothing and focus on breathing. In and out.
Okay, this has got to be ten minutes. If not, close enough. I’ve made it through one day of meditation. What, three minutes? Three freaking minutes?
Okay, maybe I’ll shoot for five minutes today instead of ten. Close your eyes and breathe. In and out.

Now, wasn’t that relaxing?

Stop the Madness

A few interesting occurrences have happened at our house over the course of this week. These serious situations have wreaked havoc on my conscious, leaving me floundering and feeling like an imposter in my own body. A few rungs on my socioeconomic status ladder have broken, catapulting me down to unfamiliar territory. These are some lofty disclosures that should not be used against me in a court of law. However, if they cause you to question my character, I completely understand.

The first incident occurred while grocery shopping on Sunday. Kate had been banished to the car with her father, after the show she put on, titled I BET YOU’VE NEVER SEEN A KID MISBEHAVE THIS BADLY IN PUBLIC, subtitled And my parents thought they were the ones running the show around here. Amazingly, after her exile, the shopping trip was pleasant. In fact, I deliberately walked at a slower pace, debated my purchases, and leisurely admired the produce. It is rather pathetic that this uninterrupted shopping trip felt like a luxury, but it did. Besides, they were in the car and I was in the store and I was in no rush to alter that peaceful (for me) arrangement. As I was wandering the wine aisle, I remembered my bloggy friend Cate’s disclosure that not only did she drink wine from a box, but she actually enjoyed it. I looked at the shelves of boxes, utterly confused, feeling like a stranger in a foreign land who doesn’t speak the language. I realized that this is exactly how a man must feel when he is sent to buy tampons for his wife. Ultimately, I just chose one and added it to my cart. Later that night I tried it and realized it wasn’t all that bad. That explains how I’ve evolved into being a woman who drinks wine from a box. Which is only one step ahead of a woman who drinks Boones Farm, right?

I hadn’t even had time to recover from the first character-questioning incident when the second incident occurred. If you can’t appreciate bathroom humor, then you might as well exit stage left right now. As I was saying, Kate went into the bathroom to use the potty and proudly declared that she had to poop. I sat her on the toilet and waited. She looked up at me and proudly exclaimed, “I am going to STINK UP this bathroom!” Often I wonder whose kid Kate really is as she says and does things that are so different than me. But at this specific moment, I stood dumbstruck and thought OH MY GOD – you’ve turned into your father.

So come on over, the boxed wine is great and my daughter will entertain you with proud assertions from the bathroom. Any class we had has been bottled up and thrown in the trash, or flushed down the toilet. Next thing you know, I’ll be shopping regularly at the Walmarts, storing inoperable vehicles on blocks in my front yard, and trying to rationalize that even though my uncle married my cousin, but its okay you know because they don’t plan on having any of dem dere chitlens.

The mantra of the moment

“The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating – in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.” - Anne Morriss

If putting it into action were only so simple.

Deep Revelations from Vacation

There isn’t much worse than returning home from vacation, is there? I promise, soon I will stop talking about vacation. How annoying it is that everything is all about my vacation? Instead of posting about my vacation all week long, forcing me to sob at my desk while I return to reality, I figured I’d wrap up the whole vacation in this post. Save for the stories about the security checkpoint and the toe-cracker incident, which totally deserve their own posts at a later date.

With that lame introduction, I present the top three things I learned on vacation.



First, Kate is a fantastic traveler. To counteract her Tasmanian Devil tendencies, all she needs is an airplane to turn into a perfect little Shirley Temple. Maybe it’s the cabin pressure. Note to self: find a way to simulate said pressure on an ongoing basis. Her favorite parts of the flight were TAKE-OFF, LANDING, and TURBULANCE. If I didn’t know that this child was surgically extracted from my uterus, I’d use this as proof that she certain does not have my DNA.



Second, apparently some obscure memorandum was issued to select mothers advising them that allowing their child to PEE in the SAND at a public beach is permissible. I was omitted from that mailing list, but the family next to us on Sanibel Island apparently was not. I can appreciate the immediate urgency to locate facilities for a potty-trained toddler who needs to pee NOW, and may even grant a poor mother a courtesy pass in those circumstances. I do not appreciate the indolent mother who instructs her children to “go” before they start playing and even if they don’t have to that they should “at least try.” That activity was followed up by a directive to cover it up with sand. I expected the catnip and Fancy Feast to follow.



Third, it is not advisable to wait until you feel like you are getting burned before you apply sunscreen. Nothing good will come of that approach. It is even less advisable if you are of Scandinavian decent and are so pale-white that you border on translucent. Retuning to taunts of “Powder” and “Albino” despite having been in a sunny climate are preferable to having skin so irritated that walking around without any clothes on in a public place almost sounds like a logical solution. Additionally, if someone had offered to sever my sunburned feet off with a dull butter knife last night, I would have entertained the idea because it certainly would have been LESS PAINFUL.



Now please excuse me while I mourn vacation and apply some more Aloe Vera.

Caution: Do not try this at home

On Sunday, after I had been in the car for uncountable torturous hours, I was craving some human contact. While calling someone is easy, there are times when talking just feels like too much work. It is that awkward stage of wanting company, but not quite desperately enough to engage in arduous work, like syllables and coherent sentences. In these moments, there is no more glorious invention that the text message. So, I grabbed my phone and the follow text-conversation took place:

ME: What doing?
CRAIG: You are going to get a ticket.
ME: What? For what?
CRAIG: For texting while you are driving.
ME: Whatever. I’ve got skillz.
CRAIG: Nlol
ME: What is Nlol?
CRAIG: Not laughing out loud.
ME: Shut up, you text while you are driving.
CRAIG: No. No, I don’t.
ME: Oh, you so do.
CRAIG: No, I pull over.
ME: Is your nose growing?
CRAIG: Really I DO pull over.
ME: Uh uh.
CRAIG: Seriously.
ME: I guess that is a good thing. You can’t drive even when you aren’t texting. I catch your point.
CRAIG: NLOL.NLOL.NLOL

Disclaimer: I did not actually state that I was driving. This very easily could have transpired at a stop light (or some other non-moving event), which isn't as dangerous as it is downright annoying.

Please pass the cheese

When I don’t have time to blog I get ornery. I think that is because writing is pretty much the only relaxing activity that I partake in. I can see the book title now: How Blogging Saved What Was Left of My Sanity. Oh and my definition of ornery might be slightly different than those close to me. I, ahem, don’t admit to ornery very often, so you know it has to be ugly, right?

Well, I haven’t had time to write lately, or to even breathe for that matter … and I am getting ORNERY. Ornery as is I am nearing that little precipice where being nice to innocent bystanders is teetering on impossible.

Situations like this are best illustrated with examples, so let me give you an overview of my schedule from last Friday morning through tomorrow night. While I know that is the last thing on earth you care to read, taking this out on my keyboard might help release some of this stress. Hmmm, where to start. I worked a 16-hour day, orchestrated a company event for 146 people, emceed portion of said event, drove 14 hours (round trip) to see my sister, met my nephew, attending my nephew’s bris ( deserves its own post, as I am not Jewish), didn’t sleep one night while listening to my bleating nephew (not so endearing when shrieking baby is not yours), worked a 10-hour day, presented to our Board of Directors, developed a mid-term exam, had a Dr.’s appt that was beyond infuriating (deserves it’s own book, I am certain), will work another 8-hour day, and then administer exam to class.

I’m such a slacker. I mean, whatever will I do with the second half of the week? Well, besides packing three people for a vacation and being a single parent in the meantime.

I think ornery is a rather generous description.

Perhaps I SHOULD avoid blogging during times like this, since everyone enjoys nothing more than coming to a pity party, right?

And you call this vacation?

I suffer from a disease that is best named the Ignore It and Maybe It Will Go Away Syndrome. This syndrome does not require a lot of additional clarification. I like to avoid even being exposed to things that I don’t like, or avoid taking care of things that are just a quintessential pain in the ass. It is similar to denial, but in denial, you have to at least make yourself aware of the issue in order to appropriately deny it, correct? I much prefer my approach, which sometimes means I don’t have to think about it from the start. There is some psychologist reading this blog who is pinning me as the next poster child for some trendy new diagnosis, I can feel it now.

For example, let’s take winter weather. I hate snow. I hate the arctic cold. I hate driving on bad roads. Instead of constantly obsessing over it and inflicting more emotional distress than necessary, I abstain from even listening to the weather. So, when people say, “Did you hear about the snow storm coming in tonight? We are supposed to get hammered!” I stare at them with a blank look. I much prefer the vision in my head, the optimistic side of me that instead secretly hoped to wake up rejoycing that we miraculously found a 70-degree February day. While this is good for my psyche, it isn’t necessarily helpful when I wake up to freezing rain, absolutely unprepared for the additional drive time my morning commute will require.

I’ve taken this same approach to buying our airline tickets for a trip we are taking NEXT WEEK. While I’ve been diligently researching flights for two months, our options have been fairly repulsive. In other words, paying $1600 to fly three people to Florida, with two connections each way and arrival times around the midnight hour, is not my idea of a vacation. I am not mentally prepared for Kate’s first flight, not to mention navigating multiple connections and subjecting myself to the absolute meltdown that will certainly take place between the hours of 9pm and midnight. And seriously people, if I am spending $1600 on airfare, that plane better be landing somewhere better than Ft. Myers.

So, I ignored it. I continued to think that maybe if I just waited, a much better scenario would come along.

It didn’t.

Then, Craig started to consider driving. The only thing worse than the travel arrangement described above would be the three of us in the car for 24-hours. I am developing a facial twitch just thinking about it. If I were a betting person, I’d put five-grand on Kate’s vocabulary expanding to include much more colorful language at the end of that car ride. I thought Craig was joking about this suggestion, but he wasn’t. Even more frightening, I caught myself in a moment of ENTERTAINING.THE.NOTION.

I feverishly got back online, trying to secure some flight arrangements that would put an end to this madness. On Airtran’s site (which we have to fly for a reason too exhausting to explain), I realized they sold tickets each-way, versus roundtrip only. I found an excellent price on RETURN trip tickets, so I booked three. I was apprehensive that if we waited for the THERE ticket prices to come down, we’d miss out on the great non-stop return flight.

We don’t have flights there, because at $950, I am still choosing to ignore that conundrum, hoping a solution will spontaneously appear. However, I’ve sufficiently obstructed any plans involving DRIVING to Florida by booking the return flight. I’m such a pain in the ass.

No Worthy Title

Click to enlarge

Interviewed by Cate at Show my Face

Today I am being interviewed by Cate from Show my Face. Cate sent me a series of thought-provoking questions to answer here today. Cate was one of my first regular blog-readers and daily commenters. For that, she earns a special place in bloggy-heaven. I love Cate’s blog for her humor, her ability to say so many things I think, but would never be brave enough to say, and her ability to respond to nearly every single person who comments on her blog. She makes me look really, really inept at this particular task. Cate also deserves accolades since she hooked me up with a great new laptop when my last one caught some infectious disease a couple of months ago. So, truthfully, without Cate, this blog might have met an untimely death.

(Insert applause for Cate here)

I had the opportunity to ask Cate some questions on her blog today too. Click here to see her answers to my questions.

I'm going to start by asking a follow-up from the awesome interview Jenny conducted. You indicated you're more likely to give advice than to receive. What do you feel was the best advice you've ever given?

I indicated that I was likely to give advice, yes. I did not attest to the quality of that advice. In fact, I think that I do give stellar advice; people just rarely ever listen to it. So, I guess it would be hard to measure the quality of my advice, considering the majority of it hasn’t been implemented. Maybe one of my blog-readers can chime in and gush about my genius advice that changed their life. Waiting. Still waiting … wait, is this thing on?

And a follow-up to the follow-up, since I'm so creative that way. What piece of advice have you given that didn't work out?

Okay, see above. Apparently the majority of my advice hasn’t worked out, since people rarely seem to listen to me. However, I will say that I have advised a plethora of people against taking new jobs and I always end up being in an “I told you so” position. I don’t rub their nose in it, I just write about their bad decision on the internet. So, without divulging any secrets, I’ll just say, listen to me when it comes to career choices, okay?

What would be (or has been) your perfect vacation destination? Let's go with a family trip, a "woohoo, Kate's with a sitter" trip for you and your husband, and a "woohoo, your husband IS Kate's sitter" trip for just you!

In the past ten years I’ve had the opportunity to travel quite a bit. I’ve realized that my best vacations are ones that don’t require doing much. So, while I’ve visited a significant number of major cities in the US, they just require me to do too much work. I hate navigating the transit systems, meticulously planning daily agendas, standing in tourist-attraction lines with a multitude of claustrophobia-influencing people, wondering whose idea of relaxing this would be. I’m quite happy to be beach-side, enjoying warm weather, good restaurants, and the most significant looming decision to be if I should wear my Reef flip-flops, or my Rainbow flip-flops. My two top vacations to date have been Key West and Hilton Head. So, whether alone, with spouse, or with family, anything that fits this criterion is perfectly suitable for me.

Since you work in HR, I assume you've probably conducted your share of job interviews. What's the most bizarre answer (or question) you've ever received from a job applicant? I always hate being asked "what's your worst quality?", any interesting answers for that?

Expectedly, I’ve had more awkward situations than can be documented here. My all time most bizarre interview is best portrayed by relaying the conversation that took place:

INTERVIEWEE (Hereafter referred to as CD (Creepy Dude)): I just want to let you know that I have a criminal history.

ME: Having a criminal history doesn’t exclude you from employment. Depending on what your conviction was and how long ago it occurred, there are still some positions that you would be allowed to obtain. We will get to those questions soon.

CD: Well, I’ll just tell you that I am a sex-offender.

ME: Okay, well, again, we’ll ask you some specific questions about those convictions in just a moment.

CD: I’m a registered sex-offender. I’m listed on the sex-offender registery.

ME: Yes, ummm, I see. Well, we might as well just skip ahead and ask you those conviction related questions now then.

CD: Yeah, I’m not a only a sex-offender, I am a REPEAT sex-offender. I just want you to know.

After the interviewee left, I used so much hand sanitizer, I think my skin needed detox from all of the alcohol. I momentarily tried to conjure up a way I could turn that hand sanitizer into desk sanitizer, chair sanitizer, pen sanitizer, and mental-image sanitizer.

I often feel misunderstood or unheard. What is something that not a lot of people know or realize about you but you wish more people could know?

Oh, this is an ineffably difficult question for me. I feel misunderstood the majority of the time. Admittedly, likely not unheard, but misunderstood, which can be unheard on a different level. I would pretty much say that nearly any assumption that people have about me is inaccurate, except for the handful of people that know me very, very well. The most audacious is the people who believe that I truly have it all together and I can’t control the urge to shout … do you read my blog people?

Cate, it’s been a pleasure! Thank you for taking the time to participate in my bloggy interview exchange today. I hope you enjoyed it.

Come on Down!

I have been in a management position for the last nine years. In other words, at 29 years old, I have more management experience than a large percentage of people quite older than I. Despite that fact, I continuously find myself in situations where I have to prove my knowledge and ability in a senior management role based upon an initial assumption that am unqualified for it. It used to infuriate me that I was always the underdog, fighting vigorously to defend my position. However, I’ve learned that it is much more entertaining to just sit back, eat a few bon-bons, then catch someone by total surprise when they are least expecting it. I find the humor in this a significant return on all the years I had to work so hard to prove my ability. Now, please excuse me while I attempt to stop gagging and wipe the scowl from my face.

I tell you that not to convince you of my brilliance, but simply to explain that I avoid bringing attention to my age, or the fact that I am the youngest person on our executive team by more than a decade. However, this week I was caught in a weak moment as we were discussing plans for an upcoming event.

ME: I think we should play Plinko, it would be an easy way to extend our prizes through the night and something to get people excited and engaged.

UNIDENTIFIED COWORKER: What is Plinko?

ME: What? You don’t know what Plinko is? It is the game that they used to play on the Price is Right.

(blank stares from a room full of colleagues)

ME: Price is Right, always on weekdays 11:00 a.m. I loved the days I stayed home from school and I could watch it.

(Silence)

(More silence)

UNIDENTIFIED COWORKER #2: Well, I don’t think that the Price is Right was on when I was young enough to be staying home from school. No, in fact, I’m quite sure I was working while you were at home watching Price is Right.

Damn.

Perhaps Monday I will show up with my Trapperkeeper and excuse myself for naptime after lunch.

You've Got a Friend

I remember this specific Saturday in Junior High like it was yesterday. That is quite a feat considering my inability to remember yesterday the majority of the time. I would be an interrogators dream. “What do you mean you can’t remember what you did yesterday woman? Don’t make me hang you from the ceiling by your toenails. Speak!” So, remembering a random Saturday some sixteen years ago is nothing short of a miracle.

On that particular Saturday, my mother was doing her very motherly-duty of hauling our ungrateful, spoiled little selves to ice-skating class. This Saturday was different though. This Saturday my brand-new friend Megan was coming along with us. I am not sure whose idea of a good time riding 60 miles to watch someone else ice-skate was, but we went with it. I guess that beat the other available options in our no-name town on a Saturday afternoon, like watching paint dry.

I was nervous about hanging out with my new friend. She was funny and I was, well, not. I tried though; I tried what could be classified as a little too hard. About 8 miles out of town, I spotted a little ma-and-pa style resort on the north side of the road. How come I had never noticed such an odd little place? “Megan, look! That place is called Linger Longer Resort. Who would name something Linger Longer?” I cackled, hoping Megan would appreciate my humor. Silence ensued. “Um, yeah, that is my Grandpa and Grandpa’s resort” Megan causally said.

I think I fainted and blacked-out for a quick moment, so I don’t recall the blubbering, awkward, apologizing that followed.

About 35 miles further down the road, I regained my confidence and my spunk. Simultaneously, I realized that we were quickly approaching a house that I always gawked at on my weekly trip. “Megan, oh my gosh! Seriously, you HAVE to see this house. They have animals running all over their yard, not like dogs, like barnyard animals IN THEIR FRONT YARD. It’s like the freaking animal farm.” Megan crinkled her nose and giggled a nervous, fake, giggle. “Um, yeah, that is my other Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”

I think I fainted again and I am almost certain I died just for a quick moment before I was speedily revived to face the embarrassment of trying to remove the foot that had permanently taken up residence in my mouth.

That, Ladies and Gentleman, was the official start to one of my greatest friendships of all time. Apparently the key to any true, long-lasting friendship starts with an obnoxious trashing of ones family. Last weekend, I was able to join in celebrating Megan’s 30th birthday. We have now officially been friends for more of our life than we haven’t and that is something I truly cherish. I contemplated getting all mushy and professing my undying thankfulness for Megan's friendship, but that seemed, well, too expected.



My second thought was to honor her by proving a catty recap of the activities surrounding the 30th birthday party. However, very few of those details are suitable for publishing on this here family-friend blog. What kind of company have I been keeping? All I have to say is that it was the first time I was ever threatened by someone to “Go all Chris Brown on my ass.”





With that my dear Megs, Happy Birthday. Here is to the next 30!