Eat Up

You know your life has degraded to a new level of pathetic when the highlight of your week is a trip to Walmart. As all of the other highlights from my life have been relatively interesting, you might assume that something amazing happened today at Walmart. But it didn't. Nothing about Walmart has, or will ever, change. It's universally... blue. 

The only truly blog-worthy aspect of the trip was that instead of there being simply small, medium, and large marshmallows like I remember as a kid, there are about a million kinds, varying in size, color and texture. But the small, white, jet-puffed ones, perfect for popping in your mouth ten at a time, were nowhere to be found. There were, however, plenty of the Great Value brand, but I must point out that the generic ones don't melt; they sort of, well, wilt. (I have in fact experimented with this over a live fire, so don't tell me I'm wrong.) When I was asked to pick up the little, white, jet-puffed marshmallows, I thought I'd really got off easy! Clearly not! Sigh.... And it didn't help that the remainders of a sinus infection from hell still have a death grip on my head. My only words upon finally escaping through those shiny automated doors were, "I think I need a nap." Just not cool.

And here so ends all rational statements. I have nothing else to say, so if you want to hear something devastatingly witty and equally as charming, you had better stop reading. But if you're brave and would like to know the insides of my sick mind, listen up. 

Here's what I learned during the worst of my sinus infection, while staring at the ceiling, trying not to stop breathing:

#1) Two HotHands over the eyes does more for a throbbing head than any heated towel.

#2) The Bears losing to the Packers does not seem morally right.

#3) Emergen-C is tolerable if mixed with apple juice and water.

#4) Meghan Martin is not nearly as mean as Lindsey Lohan.

#5) Just watch the video...

Ok... You can't tell me that wasn't the best 32 seconds of your entire day! Eat both squares?!? Love it!

Personally I've never tasted anything better than a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, except for maybe a Snickers Bar. Why not combine them??? I've been saying since the beginning of time that somebody a heck of a lot more powerful than me should stumble across the idea, and finally, he did. Maybe "Snickers Big Square" is not as good "Sneeses" or "Rickers," but it's still works. Whoever came up with the idea.... You are a sweet and savory genius, and I love you!

So I suppose there are some good things that come out of being sick for almost a week. I get the chance to see commercials, implying that I had time to watch TV. That's a luxury only reserved for those not writing novels, finishing school, and trying to maintain a hint of a social life. You know what else is perfectly fitted to the busy student???? I'll give you three hints:

1) It's scientifically proven to reduce stress.
2) Is excruciatingly pleasurable to experience.
3) It's something everybody wants from age 12 up.
 
Click here.

Eat up, Reader.

Overachieving a Perfectionist

Some say being a perfectionist is a good thing. Some swear that there is nothing worse. I personally feel that it all has to do with how your brain is wired; whether you are or are not inclined towards perfection. Up until now, I’ve truly been indifferent. Being an overachieving perfectionist like myself, I just do what I do best, achieving and perfecting, and let the rest fall into place.

This syndrome that we perfectionists have only presents a problem when you’re suddenly not able to do what you see as being perfect. In a perfect world I would not have a blinding, pounding, thundering headache right now. Nor would I be scheduled to give a talk in less than twenty-four hours.  Nor would I need to write thousands of words yet tonight. Nor would I feel like I’m incapable of these feats

Yes, in my perfect would I would not be faced with the choice of what I want and what I need. What I really want is to feel better, to write, to give my talk, and to come home to my love’s voice. To me, that doesn’t sound like a very high request, but none of those things are even remotely possible.

Stupid head. It picked that absolute wrong time to be obstinate. By officially admitting that I’m invalid enough to temporarily give up one of my favorite things, public speaking, I feel like I am admitting defeat. It is so unlike me to not come through on something that I’ve been asked to do. And so by canceling the entire day tomorrow and taking a sick day in bed, I will have spent almost forty-eight hours indoors and will risk the onset of perpetual blues.

What I really need to do is write until my fingers go numb, get up in the morning, and just do it! A couple months ago, that’s exactly what I would have done. I was fresher then; I was more me, but part of who I am disappeared, carried in someone else’s heart. Maybe I just cried that part of me out of my system with all of the other emotions. Who knows? Who cares?

So, the ultimate question: Should I a) get up, get going, and just do it, or b) resign into bed feeling quite pitiful?

In light of these current thoughts, I have decided I hate being an overachieving perfectionist. It means that you can’t be happy with your best, especially when you’re at your worst. You become your own worst enemy. You begin to feel like you could or should be better than you are, get higher grades than you do, write more proficiently than you have been. 

And that’s when you tell that stupid little voice in your head to shut up. You tell her that you are no different than you were two months ago, that you’re just as proficient as you were then. You face yourself in the mirror, your biggest fear. You become determined to overachieve your inner perfectionist. You get up, you admit defeat, you cancel your talk, you write until your fingers go numb, and you go to sleep dreaming of a dark and swarthy Mocha Frapp. Then you wake up, drag your pounding head out of bed, drive to Starbucks, and order yourself a Mocha Frappuccino. At least there is the one thing that will always be perfect.

Those are the thoughts of a true overachieving perfectionist. 

p.s….. I really, really need to know what your favorite drink at Starbucks is. I’m not talking a temporary liking. I mean the real deal that will be waiting for you, yummy and delicious as always. Ryan needs to know. Don’t ask. It’s for the book.

Revised Version: My Bit

I have a small confession to make. It has to do with changes, specifically changes within the last year. Don’t get your hopes up; it’s has nothing to do with a juicy, dramatic love account, but rather with two little girls who happen to be my nieces.

Exactly one year ago, I wrote a slightly pointed poem in which I vented my continual frustration to their pestering. The poem was modeled after Shel Silverstein’s work, complete with an illustration, as you can see to the right. (Now you can tell why I’m not an art major ;) If I remember properly, the poem ended with them tripping over the crack in the road… and let’s just say I didn’t have to worry about them anymore… Terrible, right? Needless to say it was not at all politically correct, and you can probably understand why it could have been interpreted to be quite offensive.

But it was not without good reason that I had so much pent up frustration. It stemmed from the fact that for years I would get the heavy responsibility of entertaining them at events we would go to together, and seeing as we’re family, there were not many events I went to without them. A year ago they would have been eight and nine years old, and were used to being catered to. Consequently, they whined relentlessly. I absolutely can’t tolerate that kind of behavior from any child, let alone one that I care about. But because I have always been just the fleeting aunt, I was not in a place where I could correct them gracefully, and so I just smiled and waved. I loved them, but honestly, I couldn’t stand them.

However, sometime in the past year, something changed. I’m sure it had to do with my growing up a lot, and their maturity increasing as well.

Today, for the second Sunday in a row, my family and theirs went out to eat at the delicious and highly filling Logan’s Steakhouse, and for the second Sunday in a row, I’ve enjoyed these two little girls! They seem to have developed their own personalities, and are completely different people than I remember. The ten year old is very ladylike and never speaks anything controversial, while the nine year old is much more candid. They are the perfect sisterly combination, and both dote upon my very existence as something marvelous in itself. Why is beyond me.

Analyzing them now and the hesitations that they have towards advancing adolescence makes me realize how similar we womenfolk really are! When I was their age(wow, that makes me feel old), I felt like an outsider in most settings in which I was placed and was shy about life in general. I looked at the older girls that I was around as some sort of gods that represented everything I wanted to be. I copied their hairstyles miserably, and appeared as every other ten year old does: awkward, stuck somewhere between baby face and teen.

Side note: At this time in my life, there was one particular girl whom I adored. I saw her maybe twice a year and treasured my time with her dearly. The sad part was that she did not reciprocate the love. She pushed my away, which only made me more desperate for her attention. In short, it did not end with me having very fond memories of her.

There was some good that came out of that though. I learned by example what not to do to these little girls who now look up to and model me. I would never want them to look back on me as the girl who didn’t want them around in the first place and could care less if they came back. Rather, I want to be the one that befriends them for life. They’re my nieces for goodness sake! They’re going to be around forever, so I might as well love them. It makes life so much easier that way. Besides, who doesn’t want devoted followers?

So now that I’ve made my confession, I have to tell you a short story that made me love these girls all the more:

They asked me towards the end of the meal if I would take them to the bathroom. Of course, I would. We get there, we separate into individual stalls. Silence, right? Ha. Noooo… the farthest thing from it. I might be old fashioned, but personally I find it extremely rude to be talking during such private times, but again, that’s just me.

“K?????” I heard from the stall next to me. It was J, the younger of the two’s voice.

“Yes?” I responded to my name, hoping that her next statement would not include the word “help.”

“How many more days until my mom get’s home?”

Okay, so my older sister is in California having brain surgery. It’s a sensitive issue, and not at all what I was expecting, but I responded instantaneously, “Eight, Hun.”

The next thing I know I see these pudgy little fingers coming under the door! What the heck? I’m peeing here!

“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. Hey! You’re right! (Giggle, giggle.)”

I couldn’t help but giggle myself! It was one of those Whoopi Goldberg’s Is it Just Me? moments. You just shake your head and laugh along.

And so I have officially taken on two more people to love and give attention to. Love you, Quys!

Behinds

I have a question for you, Dear Readers. Why do certain young men feel that it is perfectly acceptable for them to walk around with their behinds hanging out? As this issue has been literally before my eyes the entire day, I have spent plenty of time thinking about it, and clearly I have no answer.

Today I attended an auction that was located not half an hour from my home. I am here to tell you that in this area of Central Illinois, you hardly ever see those that lean towards the ghetto side of things. Hicks, yes. Gangstas, not so much. For the most part, everyone dresses, talks, and acts decently. That being said, you can imagine my shock when entering the auction to see a whole group of behinds staring at me. Behinds. Not eyes, they were covered by smirks. Not smiles, they were hidden by the cigarettes. Not actual people, but some kind of mixture between human and demonized creature.

Granted these behinds were covered by sheer boxers, but still. The very fact that I know that these random dudes were wearing boxers is revolting. And the ironic part was that they were all wearing belts!!! What is that about? Whoever heard of wearing a belt around your knees? I just have to point out that if I was going to walk around in the frigid Illinois air with my rear end sticking out, which I am not planning on doing any time soon, I really would not bother with such an inconvenience as a belt!

But anyway… I might as well tell you that all of these young men, if you were to hose them down, strip, and redress them, would have been decent looking. In fact, I might even stretch that to attractive. But no. They’re too cool. Such a crime against society. It will be no surprise to you, then, that I kept my distance from these shadows in the crowd.

A few hours later, when returning to the auction, I realized that I had absolutely no choice but to walk directly past this crowd of behinds, but that was not the intimidating part. See, unusually I have absolutely no problem walking up to a perfect stranger, but apparently that’s only if they have a suitable clothing situation on their lower halves. It didn’t help that they were all staring at me.

Okay.

I’m younger.

I like to think I’m decent looking.

I’m alone.

I have no way of defending myself.

There’s one of me.

Four of them.

There’s no one else around.

Their eyes seemed to breath fire while their mouths steamed smoke.

I’m all about the bad boys, but that was just plain scary.

Yet, I mustered up boldness, carried on my planned course, held my head high, and avoided any eye contact whatsoever. But as I walked closer and closer to them, I could feel their eyes cutting into every inch of my body, and I could not help but shoot the very well practiced “Flip off!” glare in their direction. Here’s the thing: While giving them this silent warning, I happened to catch a glimpse of their faces. Beneath their sideways hats and oversized clothes, there stood four kids! Just like me and every other adolescent I know! One, however, stood out to me in particular: blond hair, blue eyes, tall, and (the most interesting part) he still had baby fat on his face. He reminded me very much of a certain someone a year ago, only with worse clothes and short hair. This made me realize that the guys that we standing before me were some mother’s babies! And there they were, definitely younger than I am, smoking, checking out random girls, with their rear ends hanging out! What happened to them? Here’s where appearance is everything comes into play. For all I know they could be smart and caring human beings, but no one would ever see that! Most of us would only see the hocus pocus of what’s apparently cool.

After making this two second realization in my own mind, I was now standing within a few feet of these, dare I say, people? The instinctual glare resumed it’s position locked deep inside the mind, only to be disturbed for other such important times, and to my surprise, a smile and a graceful, “Hey!” came flying out of my mouth! They all about jumped three feet in the air, obviously not expecting a girl to talk to them, and after clearing their throats and straightening up their stances said hi back in an all too macho way.

I wasn’t quite brave enough to stick around to have a conversation them, but I couldn’t help seeing them differently for the remainder of the day. That’s where my question comes in: Why do certain young men feel that it is perfectly acceptable for them to walk around with their behinds hanging out? It ruins everything. Had they been suitably dressed and adorned with a halfway inviting smile on their faces, they might have had the pleasure of conversing with the great and wonderful Sanity Mochas. What a loss! And if I, who does not consider herself to be a judgmental person, would shy away from them, think of the countless other opportunities they will continue to miss out on daily… all because their behinds are hanging right on out there for God and everybody to see. And I am here to tell you, if my own dear Prince Charming ever, and I mean ever, dresses himself in such an inappropriate fashion, I just might have to kill him. And no, not literally.  :)

Non-Shopaholic Syndrome

You see, most girls love a new pair of shoes like I love a new piece of tack. Most girls get high from successfully matching an entire outfit, while I get a high by jumping my horse over three-foot oxers. Most girls crave a spree at the mall like I crave my Mocha Frappuccino.

I have my differences with these most girls, and I am more than fine with that. But every once and a while I get sucked into a “most girls day” at the mall. Being as a day spent with my best friend was long overdue, we took an afternoon out on the town, or rather, out on the mall.

Here’s fact: I’m the type of girl that goes shopping half a dozen times a year, each with a very specific purpose, i.e. new dress and heals, or jean shorts and kicks. The little shops with all of their glory do not appeal to me for one very concise reason: All of the clothes look amazing on me, but I’m flat broke 95% of the time. To avoid falling in love with clothes I can’t afford, I avoid the designer shops as a whole.

Yesterday was the exception to my rule. We weaved and wandered and window-shopped until I thought I was going to die should I come across one more article of clothing that was obnoxiously screaming my name. I’d had enough. It was time to try on something pretty.

J.C Penny’s (which I realize is not one of those compact designer stores, but go with me here) had all of their prom dresses on sale. I’ve been in love with prom dresses since I was thirteen. I fell in love with a big, poofy, pink, floor length ball gown that made me feel like Cinderella. It was like the ultimate game of dress-up. Unfortunately my mother made me return it. Prom was to be a very, very long time away. Hence, my continuing fetish with prom dresses. I at least had to try on the pretty ones.

The last time I had one physically on my body was probably two years ago when a large portion of my baby fat still remained firmly, and very unattractively, on my legs. I’m the first to admit that I was downright misshapen! I avoided any dress that hung straight or was shorter than my kneecaps. Most of the time I still see myself as that little girl with the weird body and look for the more sophisticated styles.

Oh, how times have changed!

I talked myself into trying on some short, short, “You actually wore that in public!?” short dresses. THEY LOOKED AMAZING!!!  I’m no longer misshapen, nor does it need to be catered to with non-teenager-like styles. I can rock the junior section!

Here’s the sad part: I fell in love with two dresses that I can’t afford simply because I have nowhere to wear them.  One is a floor length, straight ball gown. It is dark blue with beaded straps. My best friend said I looked like a Grecian goddess in it, and I happened to agree. However that was not the aspect that particularly tempts me. The temptation arose when I remembered that I do in fact have an event that I could wear it to if only I could find a colored sweater to wear with it, and it’s 50% off! Sigh…. Despite all of this, I left empty handed. Fortunately, should I be convinced to return, I know the way.

Just to reinforce my disdain for the mall life, let me give you a true example. While I was trying to talk myself into or out of this beautiful dress, I was asked to retrieve another dress for my best friend. Sure, I would go get it. When I walked out of the dressing room, the prom dresses were nowhere in sight. Hmm… So I started walking in the direction in which I thought I might find them and eventually they appeared. By the time I found the correct size, the dressing room was now the thing that was nowhere in sight. Again I headed in the direction I thought would lead me back to my desired location, except this time I was not successful. I now knew that their about a gillion dressing room in the upper level of J.C. Penny’s, but the one I was searching for had disappeared. I was lost. Yes, the girl who can find her way out a strange city, in the dark no less, was lost in the mall, in a prom dress, with no phone. It was only after I began to pass the same few things time after time that I resorted to desperate measures. I asked three different clerks if they had happened to see which dressing room I came out of. They hadn’t. I got several stern glares from passersbys, but smile I did. It was really quite ironic to be lost, in a mall, in a prom dress, looking like you’re totally high, on a mission to find a dressing room. Ha. In case you were wondering, I did eventually find the dressing room that contained my belongings. As it turns out, it was the only one in the entire store that wasn’t marked. So I’m not that stupid, just directionally challenged within the walls of the mall.

Today was not such a “most girls day,” and so I decided to wear my two new purchases: a sparkly headband and a pair of patterned tights ($1, and very cute I might add) with a pencil skirt and black shirt. Simple, elegant, accessible. That’s how I’ve always been.

Because it is awfully rare that I get new, noticeable items in my wardrobe, I received several compliments on my headband, and only one comment on my tights. This one particular comment came from the mouth of an older woman who is known for talking just a little too much. She has probably spoken to me 10 times in the entirety of my life, and only once had a legit conversation. Out of the blue, she comes up to me and says, “I’ve been trying to figure out what your hose remind me of, and I finally figured it out! You look like a cow! I mean, your legs; they look like cow’s legs. Yeah, okay, bye!”

I looked down at my tights. They’re black. They’re shear. They have a pattern that swirls randomly. Does that sound like a cow to you, dear reader? I swear some people would be much better off if they just never spoke out loud at all. But then again, I suppose that’s why I don’t have the power to shut people up. If I did, there would be an awful incident of mute people in central Illinois.

Despite being told I look like a cow in my tights, I still rather like them. They’re different I suppose, kind of like me. I’m not like other girls, remember? And, let you tell you, standing out as different is not a bad way to be. As it is, I am blessed with three people I explicitly trust in this world, one I truly love. I have one passion, one goal: to live, to love, to laugh, to be happy. And I have officially accepted, cow tights and all, I am who I am, and I’m okay with being just that.