They say that a hard experience will show you who your true friends are. I had no reason to doubt this a week ago when I went in for a minor surgery. The surgery itself was not a big deal. Just a same day office visit kind of surgery. A partial uvulectomy. I expected to feel just fine in a couple days tops. Much to my annoyance, it has been a long and tearful recovery. And a terribly lonely one.
Today I (under the influence of a narcotic I must add) moped to a very good friend of mine that no one in our circle seemed to care how I was doing. Bear in mind that this drug tended to make me weepy and I was overly prone to feeling sorry for myself at that point. But I was genuinely concerned at the time that I must not even be likeable to fall off everyone's radar like that. She recognized that I was dosed at the time, so she gently steered the conversation to lighter things and had me laughing in two minutes flat. This friend is easily one of the busiest people I know, yet she has checked in with me every day.
She made me realize something though. I was being terribly self-centered. I was so focused on me that I failed to realize that the people who have checked in with me haven't done so because I'M so great. They've done it because THEY are. These are people who are consistently thoughtful to everyone around them. They've made thoughtfulness a habit.
As far as the friends who didn't check in, this is not intended to make anyone feel chagrined or chastised. I assume they're just a lot like me: sometimes forgetful or too busy or preoccupied with other things.
But I want to be able to say that's the old me. Hard experiences show you who your true friends are? No. Hard experiences show you how a true friend is. And what they do. Not because of who you are, but because of who they are. So thank you to those of you who have been a friend to me. In so doing, you have been teaching me so much about how to be a better friend myself.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Grade school is tough, man.
I was up this morning very early to feed Ember. I went back to bed around 5 or so, but I couldn't fall asleep. The strangest memory had come to me. In sixth grade our art teacher had assigned us a project to draw 20 different faces for 20 different emotions. He wanted us to focus on how emotions change our eyes and mouths, etc. We moaned and groaned about our horrible plight, so he told us about a girl over at a different school who had, of her own volition, done 412 drawings! I turned to the guy next to me, Cody, and I bragged that I could easily break that record. (WHYYYY) He had $5 that said I couldn't. Game on. Worst weekend of my life ensued. But somehow, I think with Scott's help, I cranked out 413 different emotions. I had run out of emotions of course, so I was using descriptors like "Just got poked by a cactus" and "Got burned by a hot seatbelt" toward the end. If you're wondering, both of those instances result in the exact same facial expression. Anyway, I got my kudos and $5 from Cody. I also permanently solidified my existence as being that of a total nerd.
So after that odd memory came to me, it was a total onslaught. I couldn't fall asleep for the life of me. There were so many grade school memories that flooded my mind. I wanted to document them just so I could fall back asleep, but a part of me was afraid to. I realized that even as I tried to flesh them out with more detail, they crumbled right before my eyes as though they were made out of spun sugar. How ironic that I would need to avoid writing about them in order to preserve them in my mind. There are, however, a few very vivid memories that I'd like to share. Maybe some life lessons tucked in there somewhere too.
No names have been changed to protect any innocents. You're all going down with me.
I remember walking back from gym class with Chris. I think we were in second grade. I liked Chris a lot but we hadn't talked much. When we did I always thought he was really funny. He had a dry sense of humor, that one. So as we were walking back from gym, I remember trying to make him laugh. I couldn't tell you what point I was trying to make, but I made a reference to a "fat, bald, cross-eyed, pigeon-toed guy." and I laughed uproariously. To my dismay, he wasn't even smiling. He looked at me very seriously and said, "I'm cross-eyed." I died a thousand deaths in that moment. I had had no idea and I certainly never wanted to make fun of him. I'm pretty sure I blew past his comment and acted like it was no big deal, but the rest of the walk back was pretty quiet.
Life lessons learned: don't make fun of people. Period. Present or not, imaginary or not. It's ugly. Second, apologize even when it's awkward. If you don't, you just might regret it 25 years later.
Same school year. I was never the girl who got love letters from the boys. I knew this was because I was hideous, of course. Even in second grade I had a sense of unease about being the center of attention. When people ask now how school was for me, my response is often a very long pause and then the admission that I very much felt like a sore thumb in school. And it started early. It was already in full swing by the time this particular day rolled around. I got my first love letter from Matt Nitschke. Now I was one of the tallest girls in my class. This was horrible and caused me to curse my very existence, you see. Matt had the opposite problem as one of the shortest boys. A few of the other kids noticed that he gave me a note and I was humiliated. I felt it drew attention to me being so tall and I was afraid people would make fun of me. I put it in my bag as discreetly as possible and decided to wait until I got home to read it. Don't get me wrong, I was flying high to have gotten a love note! But I didn't like being teased about it. I brought it home and ran to my room and spread it out on the floor. There were lots of pages. I don't remember one thing he had written, although I'm sure it was very poetic and sweet. Our neighbor lady was over chatting with my mom in the kitchen, and as I walked out I realized that my mom was telling her that I had gotten a love note. I had no idea how she knew but I was mortified that she was telling Adele! Adele would tease me ruthlessly for something like that! My ears burned and I held it against Matt that I was so embarrassed about all this. He gave me notes for several days but I never let on that I liked receiving them. Kids in our class picked up on this and teased both of us. Lots of tales of us sitting in a tree or some such nonsense. By Friday, I had had it. Matt brought over another note and handed it to me as a bunch of us were standing in the back of the room. I took it from him, turned up my nose, and dropped it in the garbage. To my dismay and horror, it hit the bottom of the empty four foot tall garbage can and went CLANK. It.... clanked. He had given me something. I wanted to dive in there and fetch it out and give it back to him if nothing else. The look he gave me was one I'll ever forget. It was the single most cruel, heartless thing I had ever done. Matt looked at the garbage can longingly, but he had too much pride to tip it over and try to retrieve the note. I desperately wanted to apologize and felt like crying, but I couldn't get over my own pride either. It was the last note I ever got from him, or anyone, not surprisingly. I have been haunted by that incident ever since. I bet it's at least once a month on average that I think of Matt and wonder if he remembers what I did. I'd love to just tell him sorry.
Life lesson learned: don't ever let your pride supercede your desire to make something right.
Just a few random memories: I remember stealing chalk and an eraser from Mrs. Hutton in first grade. We had a chalkboard at home that I loved playing with, but we didn't have any chalk. I could have asked Mom and Dad for some I suppose, but it seemed much easier just to take some from the classroom. It was early in the morning and the teacher was in the back of the class greeting kids. I had come in and put my bag down and then I casually stood at the front of the classroom and inched backwards toward the chalkboard (if one can do such a thing casually). Once my back hit the chalkboard, I felt around until I found a piece of chalk and an eraser, then I held them behind my back and ran back to my desk. Life lesson learned: be more inconspicuous when stealing stuff. Hah. I felt tremendously guilty, actually. I brought it back the next day. I'm sure Mrs. Hutton knew what I had done.
I remember the first day of first grade. Mrs. Hutton had handed out a piece of paper and we were supposed to do something with it.. I don't remember what offhand. But as soon as I got mine, I promptly sneezed all over it. The page was literally soaked. We were supposed to raise our hand when we were done with it, so she was surprised that I had raised my hand so quickly. When she realized that it was because mine was covered with snot rather than answers, she made a face and recoiled a bit. She went and got me a new one and then folded mine up snot-side-in and threw it away. Life lesson? Nah. It was as unemotional as a business transaction.
Kindergarten. I literally remember nothing about kindergarten other than Tony Barnes standing at the front of the room with a glorious flat-top haircut, holding the flag as we all recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I had never been so in love in all of my five years.
Third grade. Cody Champagne broke my heart. He chased me around the playground for a couple of days and I dutifully played hard-to-get (i.e. I asked Brooke to punch him in the nose and she cheerfully obliged). Then one day I got to school and he called me a fat cow in the hallway! I was crushed! After that he was always the one who "got away".
Last day of fifth grade. I was horribly sick. I think I had strep throat, because I had to take these awful antibiotics that tasted like banana dirt. I wanted to go to school so badly because it was Awards Day and I hated to miss it! I was devastated. Fast forward a year to the last day of sixth grade. I was at the top of my game. I was going to be called up to get an award at least six times, so I felt like a big deal. My older sister Kristi had even come to watch and she had brought some of her friends. I literally could not have felt cooler. ...until she tripped me one of the times I walked up to get my award. I was mad at her all summer.
Sixth grade. Allison Suko was SO lucky. She had her birthday the day before Veteran's Day, so no matter what, she could always have a sleep over because we never had school the next day. She did it lots of times, but sixth grade was particularly rowdy. We played Truth or Dare, and someone dared her to lick the toilet seat. I could not believe it.. she did it! But she insists that she had just cleaned it prior to everyone coming over. Doubt it.
Mortifying moment of fifth grade: we had to read aloud in class and I pronounced orangutan "orinJOOtin". The class busted out laughing. I was so embarrassed. I was surprised they all knew what it was! I had never heard of such a thing.
Sixth grade was the year I decided I was a runner. Hah. At the beginning of the year we had to do our fitness tests, and I think I ran the 600 in 3:26. In case you're wondering, that is HORRIBLE. That whole year I became determined to get good at running. By the end of the year when we retested, I ran the 600 in 1:57. Tied Cody, mind you. I think Steph Pederson beat us by just a couple seconds but I could live with that. I felt pretty awesome.
Speaking of Steph, she and Nicky McCann and I were in a dance trio for gym class. We had to come up with a dance and perform it in front of several classes. Basically my worst nightmare. Steph choreographed the whole thing. I think we took second place! I'm pretty sure Sarah Bergman's team won first. She was the queen of dance. I think I could still do the first part of that dance... but not for any less than a million dollars.
I'm getting snapped back to reality here. Ember is just waking up from her nap. Pardon the complete lack of structure. Call this an exercise in free-writing. Mrs. Moser would be so proud.
So after that odd memory came to me, it was a total onslaught. I couldn't fall asleep for the life of me. There were so many grade school memories that flooded my mind. I wanted to document them just so I could fall back asleep, but a part of me was afraid to. I realized that even as I tried to flesh them out with more detail, they crumbled right before my eyes as though they were made out of spun sugar. How ironic that I would need to avoid writing about them in order to preserve them in my mind. There are, however, a few very vivid memories that I'd like to share. Maybe some life lessons tucked in there somewhere too.
No names have been changed to protect any innocents. You're all going down with me.
I remember walking back from gym class with Chris. I think we were in second grade. I liked Chris a lot but we hadn't talked much. When we did I always thought he was really funny. He had a dry sense of humor, that one. So as we were walking back from gym, I remember trying to make him laugh. I couldn't tell you what point I was trying to make, but I made a reference to a "fat, bald, cross-eyed, pigeon-toed guy." and I laughed uproariously. To my dismay, he wasn't even smiling. He looked at me very seriously and said, "I'm cross-eyed." I died a thousand deaths in that moment. I had had no idea and I certainly never wanted to make fun of him. I'm pretty sure I blew past his comment and acted like it was no big deal, but the rest of the walk back was pretty quiet.
Life lessons learned: don't make fun of people. Period. Present or not, imaginary or not. It's ugly. Second, apologize even when it's awkward. If you don't, you just might regret it 25 years later.
Same school year. I was never the girl who got love letters from the boys. I knew this was because I was hideous, of course. Even in second grade I had a sense of unease about being the center of attention. When people ask now how school was for me, my response is often a very long pause and then the admission that I very much felt like a sore thumb in school. And it started early. It was already in full swing by the time this particular day rolled around. I got my first love letter from Matt Nitschke. Now I was one of the tallest girls in my class. This was horrible and caused me to curse my very existence, you see. Matt had the opposite problem as one of the shortest boys. A few of the other kids noticed that he gave me a note and I was humiliated. I felt it drew attention to me being so tall and I was afraid people would make fun of me. I put it in my bag as discreetly as possible and decided to wait until I got home to read it. Don't get me wrong, I was flying high to have gotten a love note! But I didn't like being teased about it. I brought it home and ran to my room and spread it out on the floor. There were lots of pages. I don't remember one thing he had written, although I'm sure it was very poetic and sweet. Our neighbor lady was over chatting with my mom in the kitchen, and as I walked out I realized that my mom was telling her that I had gotten a love note. I had no idea how she knew but I was mortified that she was telling Adele! Adele would tease me ruthlessly for something like that! My ears burned and I held it against Matt that I was so embarrassed about all this. He gave me notes for several days but I never let on that I liked receiving them. Kids in our class picked up on this and teased both of us. Lots of tales of us sitting in a tree or some such nonsense. By Friday, I had had it. Matt brought over another note and handed it to me as a bunch of us were standing in the back of the room. I took it from him, turned up my nose, and dropped it in the garbage. To my dismay and horror, it hit the bottom of the empty four foot tall garbage can and went CLANK. It.... clanked. He had given me something. I wanted to dive in there and fetch it out and give it back to him if nothing else. The look he gave me was one I'll ever forget. It was the single most cruel, heartless thing I had ever done. Matt looked at the garbage can longingly, but he had too much pride to tip it over and try to retrieve the note. I desperately wanted to apologize and felt like crying, but I couldn't get over my own pride either. It was the last note I ever got from him, or anyone, not surprisingly. I have been haunted by that incident ever since. I bet it's at least once a month on average that I think of Matt and wonder if he remembers what I did. I'd love to just tell him sorry.
Life lesson learned: don't ever let your pride supercede your desire to make something right.
Just a few random memories: I remember stealing chalk and an eraser from Mrs. Hutton in first grade. We had a chalkboard at home that I loved playing with, but we didn't have any chalk. I could have asked Mom and Dad for some I suppose, but it seemed much easier just to take some from the classroom. It was early in the morning and the teacher was in the back of the class greeting kids. I had come in and put my bag down and then I casually stood at the front of the classroom and inched backwards toward the chalkboard (if one can do such a thing casually). Once my back hit the chalkboard, I felt around until I found a piece of chalk and an eraser, then I held them behind my back and ran back to my desk. Life lesson learned: be more inconspicuous when stealing stuff. Hah. I felt tremendously guilty, actually. I brought it back the next day. I'm sure Mrs. Hutton knew what I had done.
I remember the first day of first grade. Mrs. Hutton had handed out a piece of paper and we were supposed to do something with it.. I don't remember what offhand. But as soon as I got mine, I promptly sneezed all over it. The page was literally soaked. We were supposed to raise our hand when we were done with it, so she was surprised that I had raised my hand so quickly. When she realized that it was because mine was covered with snot rather than answers, she made a face and recoiled a bit. She went and got me a new one and then folded mine up snot-side-in and threw it away. Life lesson? Nah. It was as unemotional as a business transaction.
Kindergarten. I literally remember nothing about kindergarten other than Tony Barnes standing at the front of the room with a glorious flat-top haircut, holding the flag as we all recited the Pledge of Allegiance. I had never been so in love in all of my five years.
Third grade. Cody Champagne broke my heart. He chased me around the playground for a couple of days and I dutifully played hard-to-get (i.e. I asked Brooke to punch him in the nose and she cheerfully obliged). Then one day I got to school and he called me a fat cow in the hallway! I was crushed! After that he was always the one who "got away".
Last day of fifth grade. I was horribly sick. I think I had strep throat, because I had to take these awful antibiotics that tasted like banana dirt. I wanted to go to school so badly because it was Awards Day and I hated to miss it! I was devastated. Fast forward a year to the last day of sixth grade. I was at the top of my game. I was going to be called up to get an award at least six times, so I felt like a big deal. My older sister Kristi had even come to watch and she had brought some of her friends. I literally could not have felt cooler. ...until she tripped me one of the times I walked up to get my award. I was mad at her all summer.
Sixth grade. Allison Suko was SO lucky. She had her birthday the day before Veteran's Day, so no matter what, she could always have a sleep over because we never had school the next day. She did it lots of times, but sixth grade was particularly rowdy. We played Truth or Dare, and someone dared her to lick the toilet seat. I could not believe it.. she did it! But she insists that she had just cleaned it prior to everyone coming over. Doubt it.
Mortifying moment of fifth grade: we had to read aloud in class and I pronounced orangutan "orinJOOtin". The class busted out laughing. I was so embarrassed. I was surprised they all knew what it was! I had never heard of such a thing.
Sixth grade was the year I decided I was a runner. Hah. At the beginning of the year we had to do our fitness tests, and I think I ran the 600 in 3:26. In case you're wondering, that is HORRIBLE. That whole year I became determined to get good at running. By the end of the year when we retested, I ran the 600 in 1:57. Tied Cody, mind you. I think Steph Pederson beat us by just a couple seconds but I could live with that. I felt pretty awesome.
Speaking of Steph, she and Nicky McCann and I were in a dance trio for gym class. We had to come up with a dance and perform it in front of several classes. Basically my worst nightmare. Steph choreographed the whole thing. I think we took second place! I'm pretty sure Sarah Bergman's team won first. She was the queen of dance. I think I could still do the first part of that dance... but not for any less than a million dollars.
I'm getting snapped back to reality here. Ember is just waking up from her nap. Pardon the complete lack of structure. Call this an exercise in free-writing. Mrs. Moser would be so proud.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Small Change for 2011
2011. I can already tell that I hate saying it. "Twenty-Eleven". Really? Five whole syllables to state the date? As if everyone isn't already aware of what year it is anyway. I miss 2010 already. 2012 won't be so bad, but then it's downhill from there through 2017.. and then 2027 will be especially brutal. It'll take so much time to state the date that we won't get anything done!
My first new year's resolution is to drop the preceding "twenty" when I state the date. From now on, it's just "Eleven".
My second new year's resolution is to buy more soapboxes, as I seem to be running out. Or perhaps my older sister just keeps confiscating them. She seems to think she can submit my app to Hoarders because I have so many.
What is it about a new year that gets people so excited? I don't ask that question as though I don't get excited myself; just curious about the reasoning behind it. I conducted a scientific sampling of facebook posts this morning, and it seemed that nearly every single person who commented on the new year seemed to think it would be 'happy'. I decided to investigate further.
Turns out that people like new, fresh beginnings. We revel in the notion that our past insufficiencies, short-comings, indiscretions, vices, and failures can be a thing of the past. Forgotten. Undone, forgiven, overcome.
Every new year rings in the possibility that we will finally be the person we WANT to be, no longer just the person we are.
This post can take one of two directions. I think I'm veering a little toward the cynical route. Put down the credit card- don't pay up front for a year-long gym membership just yet! Think carefully about what you are doing. Statistics prove, prove that you've, statistically, got a very small chance of actually carrying out your New Year's resolutions. Ask people who regularly go to a gym when they can finally breathe a sigh of relief that the noobs aren't coming to the gym anymore. They'll tell you late February, early March. Most people eventually lose steam. Do you even remember your resolution from last year? It's a difficult task to keep that resolution or those resolutions at the forefront of your mind for a whole year.
I have a little book called "Small Change" that I pick up every now and then. Anyone who has read my blogs in their entirety knows by now that I am (and recognize that I am) all-or-nothing. If I set out to do something, one failure can completely derail me for good. New Year's resolutions for me are more of a temporary recognition of what I'm doing wrong and what needs to change, than an effective way of actually making me change. I make jokes about my resolutions, even make light of resolutions in general, but that's because my true list of resolutions is so cliched that I don't like to share it. And, by saying that, I've essentially shared what they are. Eat right, exercise more, blah blah..
Here's the basic root problem with having a list of resolutions: they're a list.
This book, "Small Change", is all about training a person to get used to the concept of change, making changing a state of being. Here's the basic premise of the book: feel free to make a list of things you want to change about yourself. As long a list as you want. But only commit to changing one thing at a time. It takes an average of 21 times to make something a habit. If you want to create a new daily habit, you, in theory, would have it down in 21 days. However, if you want to exercise 3 times a week, it will take you seven weeks to solidify that habit. If you want to quit drinking a pop when you eat out, you'll have to commit to getting that water the next 21 times you go out. You get it.
So how does this work? Rank the items on your list in order of importance to you. Then, and this is the most difficult part for me, do them ONE AT A TIME. Some of them might come in conjunction with the first one you work on, but the key is to not focus on the others just yet. If you try to do all of them at once, you WILL fail. It is extremely tempting to try to do more than one at a time, but just remember that the best approach is one at a time.
Once you have established one habit, start on the next one while maintaining the first. It won't feel that difficult, though, because the first one will already be a habit. Once you feel that the second one has become a habit, begin working on the third. There. You have begun a lifestyle in which change is a constant. Exciting, isn't it? And much easier to maintain than starting off the year with 12 resolutions and forgetting all of them.
One other downfall I have is that my resolutions are usually specific, yes, but also quite daunting. For example: "Quit sugar". Well. It's more specific than, say, "Eat better", but it's probably not doable from the get-go. So here's my second piece of advice: when making your list of resolutions, make graduated steps for as many of them as you can. Let's use exercising for an example. Your goal may be to get to the point that you exercise 6-7 days a week for an hour, but if you expect to start out that way, you're doomed to angry muscles and epsom salt soaks and failure. So apply the rule of habitual change. Step one: walk for at least 30 minutes twice a week. According to the rule of 21, you would have to do this for at least ten weeks before you can consider it a true habit, but if you feel like walking a third time in the week starting at around week 3, there's no reason that you can't. The important thing is that you have to stick with your original goal, walking twice a week, until it isn't something you really have to remember to do because it's a habit. Then at that time you can re-evaluate. Maybe during the time that you established the walking habit, you found that you were able to go four times a week easily, but now you would really like to spend more of that time jogging. Maybe you want to jog instead of walk at least one day a week. These are just examples, I'm not saying this is the actual approach you should take. But I think you get my point: make sure that if you have resolutions that are not doable in one step, you have them broken down into mini-goals that are within reach. This eliminates the frustration and feeling of failure that comes with not accomplishing something on the first try.
One other point to remember: the rule of 21 is just a guideline. The true way to tell if something is a habit is when you do it without thinking because it's just part of your routine. If you are still struggling with one of your changes and finding that you're forgetting to do it as often as you originally intended, now is not the time to move on to the next step. Stick with your original doable goal until you feel satisfied that you have changed.
Finally, a warning. It takes around 21 times to establish a good habit, but only an average of 3 times to establish a bad one. If you miss three workouts in a row, for example, you have lost the momentum you started out with and you're going to have to really struggle to find it again. You go on vacation and eat horribly for 5 days in a row, it might take a full 21 days before you feel as though you have control over your diet again.
Keep this all in mind, and you WILL cross everything off your list! Good luck to each and every one of you! I wish you the best for 2011. Err.. for '11, I mean.
*Guess I should add that "Small Change" is written by Larry and Susan Terkel. Thanks, Wendy.
My first new year's resolution is to drop the preceding "twenty" when I state the date. From now on, it's just "Eleven".
My second new year's resolution is to buy more soapboxes, as I seem to be running out. Or perhaps my older sister just keeps confiscating them. She seems to think she can submit my app to Hoarders because I have so many.
What is it about a new year that gets people so excited? I don't ask that question as though I don't get excited myself; just curious about the reasoning behind it. I conducted a scientific sampling of facebook posts this morning, and it seemed that nearly every single person who commented on the new year seemed to think it would be 'happy'. I decided to investigate further.
Turns out that people like new, fresh beginnings. We revel in the notion that our past insufficiencies, short-comings, indiscretions, vices, and failures can be a thing of the past. Forgotten. Undone, forgiven, overcome.
Every new year rings in the possibility that we will finally be the person we WANT to be, no longer just the person we are.
This post can take one of two directions. I think I'm veering a little toward the cynical route. Put down the credit card- don't pay up front for a year-long gym membership just yet! Think carefully about what you are doing. Statistics prove, prove that you've, statistically, got a very small chance of actually carrying out your New Year's resolutions. Ask people who regularly go to a gym when they can finally breathe a sigh of relief that the noobs aren't coming to the gym anymore. They'll tell you late February, early March. Most people eventually lose steam. Do you even remember your resolution from last year? It's a difficult task to keep that resolution or those resolutions at the forefront of your mind for a whole year.
I have a little book called "Small Change" that I pick up every now and then. Anyone who has read my blogs in their entirety knows by now that I am (and recognize that I am) all-or-nothing. If I set out to do something, one failure can completely derail me for good. New Year's resolutions for me are more of a temporary recognition of what I'm doing wrong and what needs to change, than an effective way of actually making me change. I make jokes about my resolutions, even make light of resolutions in general, but that's because my true list of resolutions is so cliched that I don't like to share it. And, by saying that, I've essentially shared what they are. Eat right, exercise more, blah blah..
Here's the basic root problem with having a list of resolutions: they're a list.
This book, "Small Change", is all about training a person to get used to the concept of change, making changing a state of being. Here's the basic premise of the book: feel free to make a list of things you want to change about yourself. As long a list as you want. But only commit to changing one thing at a time. It takes an average of 21 times to make something a habit. If you want to create a new daily habit, you, in theory, would have it down in 21 days. However, if you want to exercise 3 times a week, it will take you seven weeks to solidify that habit. If you want to quit drinking a pop when you eat out, you'll have to commit to getting that water the next 21 times you go out. You get it.
So how does this work? Rank the items on your list in order of importance to you. Then, and this is the most difficult part for me, do them ONE AT A TIME. Some of them might come in conjunction with the first one you work on, but the key is to not focus on the others just yet. If you try to do all of them at once, you WILL fail. It is extremely tempting to try to do more than one at a time, but just remember that the best approach is one at a time.
Once you have established one habit, start on the next one while maintaining the first. It won't feel that difficult, though, because the first one will already be a habit. Once you feel that the second one has become a habit, begin working on the third. There. You have begun a lifestyle in which change is a constant. Exciting, isn't it? And much easier to maintain than starting off the year with 12 resolutions and forgetting all of them.
One other downfall I have is that my resolutions are usually specific, yes, but also quite daunting. For example: "Quit sugar". Well. It's more specific than, say, "Eat better", but it's probably not doable from the get-go. So here's my second piece of advice: when making your list of resolutions, make graduated steps for as many of them as you can. Let's use exercising for an example. Your goal may be to get to the point that you exercise 6-7 days a week for an hour, but if you expect to start out that way, you're doomed to angry muscles and epsom salt soaks and failure. So apply the rule of habitual change. Step one: walk for at least 30 minutes twice a week. According to the rule of 21, you would have to do this for at least ten weeks before you can consider it a true habit, but if you feel like walking a third time in the week starting at around week 3, there's no reason that you can't. The important thing is that you have to stick with your original goal, walking twice a week, until it isn't something you really have to remember to do because it's a habit. Then at that time you can re-evaluate. Maybe during the time that you established the walking habit, you found that you were able to go four times a week easily, but now you would really like to spend more of that time jogging. Maybe you want to jog instead of walk at least one day a week. These are just examples, I'm not saying this is the actual approach you should take. But I think you get my point: make sure that if you have resolutions that are not doable in one step, you have them broken down into mini-goals that are within reach. This eliminates the frustration and feeling of failure that comes with not accomplishing something on the first try.
One other point to remember: the rule of 21 is just a guideline. The true way to tell if something is a habit is when you do it without thinking because it's just part of your routine. If you are still struggling with one of your changes and finding that you're forgetting to do it as often as you originally intended, now is not the time to move on to the next step. Stick with your original doable goal until you feel satisfied that you have changed.
Finally, a warning. It takes around 21 times to establish a good habit, but only an average of 3 times to establish a bad one. If you miss three workouts in a row, for example, you have lost the momentum you started out with and you're going to have to really struggle to find it again. You go on vacation and eat horribly for 5 days in a row, it might take a full 21 days before you feel as though you have control over your diet again.
Keep this all in mind, and you WILL cross everything off your list! Good luck to each and every one of you! I wish you the best for 2011. Err.. for '11, I mean.
*Guess I should add that "Small Change" is written by Larry and Susan Terkel. Thanks, Wendy.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Rumble strips.
Scritch, scritch, scritchscritchscritchscritch. The flimsy little pretend credit card I found in my purse is doing little to put a dent in the frost on the window. I had lucked out. When we drew names for who sat where, I got my first pick: way in the back on the right side by the window. It was my favorite spot in the whole big van; a safely enclosed little corner of my world, where I was content to stare out the window and daydream, speculate, ponder. Things flew into my mind with seemingly no trigger whatsoever. What did they do with all that water while they tried to build a dam? Who first figured that broccoli was actually a food and not just a fuzzy cactus?
I press my fist against the window and let the frost melt, warmth sapped from my clenched hand. I can see out the window for just a moment, just a glimpse of sparkling snow in the fading late afternoon haze, and then frost rapidly reforms in a new pattern, this one more like crystals. Why does frost form again? Weird that they haven't invented windows that wouldn't frost.
The heat didn't always reach the back of the van very well. It was a huge van. I could stand up in it without hunching my shoulders at all. I had a big red crate at my feet with stacks of books, mostly Archie comics, but a couple of Incognito Mosquito books that I had checked out from the library too. I don't feel like reading right now. I'm content to let my mind wander.
Up at the front of the van, Mom says something to tease Dad. I don't hear it over the loud vents, but I know Mom must have said something sassy because Dad pokes at Mom's ribs in return as she laughs and swats his hand away. I smile and look back out the window. I realize how lucky I am to have parents so happy and content in their marriage. I start to make a mental list of all the qualities that are required in my future mate.
BDDDRRD. BDDRRRDD.
"What WAS that?" I holler from my spot in the back. With two rows of captain seats in front of me, I can't see the road at all. I feel a growing sense of alarm as the van comes to a stop. Dad lifts up his head in his signature way that he does when he wants us to hear what he's saying without having to take his eyes off the road. I'm leaning way forward, straining to hear. Dad glances to his left, and the van slowly makes a right turn as he turns the heat down so we can hear. "Just rumble strips!" he says, and then turns the defroster back on to max. We can hardly turn it off for a second before the windows are too frosty to see through again, even up front.
I sit back in my chair, satisfied only that there isn't something wrong with the van. Rumble strips. I don't know what they are. It bugs me that I can't figure it out. I try to go back to thinking about the perfect mate, but my mind is stuck on rumble strips. We're almost to the little town where Dad sometimes pulls over to get us each a can of pop from the vending machine. Not very often though. I plan to ask what rumble strips are when we get there. I resume staring out into the now complete darkness.
Many long minutes later, the van slows again as we start to make the familiar left turn. I can't remember the name of the town, and that bugs me too. I know it starts with a C, but it isn't Cooperstown and that's the only C town stuck in my mind.
"Dad! What's this town again?"
He turns the fan all the way down. "Courtnay."
"Oh yeah."
Dad lifts his head up again, kinda like the way he does when he's about to say something loud so we can hear, but this time he sorta turns his head to the right a little so it seems like he's just trying to make sure I'm done talking before he turns the fan back up. So I ask, "So... what are rumble strips exactly?".
Dad laughs a little. Just a small laugh. He was chewing on something. Probably sunseeds. I can see that spot near his temple that moves when he chews. After a few seconds he swallows and then explains, "Rumble strips tell a car that a stop sign is coming up so you can slow down. They kind of stand up a little bit from the road."
He looks up at the rear view mirror again, kind of like he's looking to make sure I understand what he's saying. A chill seeps in without the heat on full blast, so I simply say "Oh." I sit back in my chair, and after a few seconds, Dad turns the heat back up to high and resumes looking straight out the front window. Mom says something to him and he glances at her and then furrows his brow a little like he's thinking and then shakes his head. Then he looks back out at the road. I guess it's popcorn he's eating. I watch as he tosses another small handful into his mouth, and then his temple starts to move in and out while he chews.
I look at my older sister Kristi. She's reading a book. Her reading lamp is on, and that's what's casting the yellow glow throughout the whole van so that I can see. I like it when someone else reads. I like to sit in the dark, but I like having a little warm glow elsewhere in the van. Kristi seems to get what rumble strips are, which doesn't surprise me. She always seems to understand what the grown ups are talking about. Plus when I search her face, I don't find any of the same confusion I feel. Her brow is furrowed only because of the shadows being cast on the page every time we hit a bump.
I look at Scott and Brooke and Marcy. They don't seem to care what rumble strips are. I guess I'm the only one. I stare back out the window. Using the tip of my finger, I put five little dots over the top of my fistprint from earlier. It looks exactly like a baby's foot. I use my other fist to "walk" little baby footprints up the window. It looks real.
I wonder if they can somehow sense that a car is there and it triggers something to reach up and scrape the bottom of the van. I know the bottom of the van got scraped, of that I am sure. I felt it. I suppose it could work.. a car hits a little line on the road and then up pops a rumble strip to scrape the bottom of the car and let you know that a stop sign is coming up. Sort of like Pop Goes the Weasel. But that doesn't quite feel right. Roads aren't mechanical. That would be really expensive to make, wouldn't it? If they could make something like that, surely they could fix all the bumps in the road, no problem. And what if a motorcycle went over a rumble strip? That could be dangerous to shoot one up at the bottom of a motorcycle. They don't mess around with motorcycles. My uncle Craig was in a bad motorcycle accident, not because of rumble strips I don't think, but he was in a coma for a long time. But when he woke up out of his coma, he knew it was Sunday. My future mate will NEVER ride a motorcycle. Ever.
But if Dad said that's what rumble strips do, then I guess that's what they do.
I just can't quite figure it out.
I press my fist against the window and let the frost melt, warmth sapped from my clenched hand. I can see out the window for just a moment, just a glimpse of sparkling snow in the fading late afternoon haze, and then frost rapidly reforms in a new pattern, this one more like crystals. Why does frost form again? Weird that they haven't invented windows that wouldn't frost.
The heat didn't always reach the back of the van very well. It was a huge van. I could stand up in it without hunching my shoulders at all. I had a big red crate at my feet with stacks of books, mostly Archie comics, but a couple of Incognito Mosquito books that I had checked out from the library too. I don't feel like reading right now. I'm content to let my mind wander.
Up at the front of the van, Mom says something to tease Dad. I don't hear it over the loud vents, but I know Mom must have said something sassy because Dad pokes at Mom's ribs in return as she laughs and swats his hand away. I smile and look back out the window. I realize how lucky I am to have parents so happy and content in their marriage. I start to make a mental list of all the qualities that are required in my future mate.
BDDDRRD. BDDRRRDD.
"What WAS that?" I holler from my spot in the back. With two rows of captain seats in front of me, I can't see the road at all. I feel a growing sense of alarm as the van comes to a stop. Dad lifts up his head in his signature way that he does when he wants us to hear what he's saying without having to take his eyes off the road. I'm leaning way forward, straining to hear. Dad glances to his left, and the van slowly makes a right turn as he turns the heat down so we can hear. "Just rumble strips!" he says, and then turns the defroster back on to max. We can hardly turn it off for a second before the windows are too frosty to see through again, even up front.
I sit back in my chair, satisfied only that there isn't something wrong with the van. Rumble strips. I don't know what they are. It bugs me that I can't figure it out. I try to go back to thinking about the perfect mate, but my mind is stuck on rumble strips. We're almost to the little town where Dad sometimes pulls over to get us each a can of pop from the vending machine. Not very often though. I plan to ask what rumble strips are when we get there. I resume staring out into the now complete darkness.
Many long minutes later, the van slows again as we start to make the familiar left turn. I can't remember the name of the town, and that bugs me too. I know it starts with a C, but it isn't Cooperstown and that's the only C town stuck in my mind.
"Dad! What's this town again?"
He turns the fan all the way down. "Courtnay."
"Oh yeah."
Dad lifts his head up again, kinda like the way he does when he's about to say something loud so we can hear, but this time he sorta turns his head to the right a little so it seems like he's just trying to make sure I'm done talking before he turns the fan back up. So I ask, "So... what are rumble strips exactly?".
Dad laughs a little. Just a small laugh. He was chewing on something. Probably sunseeds. I can see that spot near his temple that moves when he chews. After a few seconds he swallows and then explains, "Rumble strips tell a car that a stop sign is coming up so you can slow down. They kind of stand up a little bit from the road."
He looks up at the rear view mirror again, kind of like he's looking to make sure I understand what he's saying. A chill seeps in without the heat on full blast, so I simply say "Oh." I sit back in my chair, and after a few seconds, Dad turns the heat back up to high and resumes looking straight out the front window. Mom says something to him and he glances at her and then furrows his brow a little like he's thinking and then shakes his head. Then he looks back out at the road. I guess it's popcorn he's eating. I watch as he tosses another small handful into his mouth, and then his temple starts to move in and out while he chews.
I look at my older sister Kristi. She's reading a book. Her reading lamp is on, and that's what's casting the yellow glow throughout the whole van so that I can see. I like it when someone else reads. I like to sit in the dark, but I like having a little warm glow elsewhere in the van. Kristi seems to get what rumble strips are, which doesn't surprise me. She always seems to understand what the grown ups are talking about. Plus when I search her face, I don't find any of the same confusion I feel. Her brow is furrowed only because of the shadows being cast on the page every time we hit a bump.
I look at Scott and Brooke and Marcy. They don't seem to care what rumble strips are. I guess I'm the only one. I stare back out the window. Using the tip of my finger, I put five little dots over the top of my fistprint from earlier. It looks exactly like a baby's foot. I use my other fist to "walk" little baby footprints up the window. It looks real.
I wonder if they can somehow sense that a car is there and it triggers something to reach up and scrape the bottom of the van. I know the bottom of the van got scraped, of that I am sure. I felt it. I suppose it could work.. a car hits a little line on the road and then up pops a rumble strip to scrape the bottom of the car and let you know that a stop sign is coming up. Sort of like Pop Goes the Weasel. But that doesn't quite feel right. Roads aren't mechanical. That would be really expensive to make, wouldn't it? If they could make something like that, surely they could fix all the bumps in the road, no problem. And what if a motorcycle went over a rumble strip? That could be dangerous to shoot one up at the bottom of a motorcycle. They don't mess around with motorcycles. My uncle Craig was in a bad motorcycle accident, not because of rumble strips I don't think, but he was in a coma for a long time. But when he woke up out of his coma, he knew it was Sunday. My future mate will NEVER ride a motorcycle. Ever.
But if Dad said that's what rumble strips do, then I guess that's what they do.
I just can't quite figure it out.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Vanity plates. Ughh.
Wow, over two months since my last post. I've been a lazy pile! Well, I don't think it's that so much as I just have nothing interesting to share, and today is no exception.
Have you ever noticed that every single VW Beetle has vanity plates that have something to do with the car itself? You've seen them. "SLUGBUG", "MY BUG", "BUGGIE", "LIMABUG", "BETLJUS", "IBBUGN"..
I swear that the VW Beetle is the only car whose collective owners are under the false impression that they must have a vanity plate as a condition of owning that particular car. Amirite??!?
And honestly, it's really just a glorified form of snobbery. You've seen the Bugs that don't have vanity plates. They slink around town all sheepish, knowing that their vanity-plate-donned peers are looking down on them in disdain, that normally obnoxiously cheerful front fender twisted into a pompous sneer..
I gotta quit watching Cars.
Growing up I used to daydream of the best vanity plates. I had settled on buying a monster truck and putting FRAGILE on the plates. Now I'm just annoyed by vanity plates. Not that I care if people have special plates, I'm just annoyed by the ones I can't figure out. It eats at me, because I don't have the luxury of popping on over to the neighbor car on interstate to chat them up about what their stupid license plate means! But you gotta love the snobbish sort that purposely get an obscure message put on their plates, but then get irritated when they are repeatedly asked, even by strangers, what it means. You asked for it, buddy! That's what you get for putting something stupid like "MIYY4U" on your plates, you dolt! (Am I too wise for you) I call that karma: you demonstrate your intellectual superiority by coming up with some plate that's so clever that these dunces you have nothing but contempt for flock to you to ask what it means. muhaha. BAHAHAA. Keep spending 14 hours a week trying to come up with a genius license plate, you wise aleck!
Not sure where all that pent-up angst came from. Yikes.
Have you ever noticed that every single VW Beetle has vanity plates that have something to do with the car itself? You've seen them. "SLUGBUG", "MY BUG", "BUGGIE", "LIMABUG", "BETLJUS", "IBBUGN"..
I swear that the VW Beetle is the only car whose collective owners are under the false impression that they must have a vanity plate as a condition of owning that particular car. Amirite??!?
And honestly, it's really just a glorified form of snobbery. You've seen the Bugs that don't have vanity plates. They slink around town all sheepish, knowing that their vanity-plate-donned peers are looking down on them in disdain, that normally obnoxiously cheerful front fender twisted into a pompous sneer..
I gotta quit watching Cars.
Growing up I used to daydream of the best vanity plates. I had settled on buying a monster truck and putting FRAGILE on the plates. Now I'm just annoyed by vanity plates. Not that I care if people have special plates, I'm just annoyed by the ones I can't figure out. It eats at me, because I don't have the luxury of popping on over to the neighbor car on interstate to chat them up about what their stupid license plate means! But you gotta love the snobbish sort that purposely get an obscure message put on their plates, but then get irritated when they are repeatedly asked, even by strangers, what it means. You asked for it, buddy! That's what you get for putting something stupid like "MIYY4U" on your plates, you dolt! (Am I too wise for you) I call that karma: you demonstrate your intellectual superiority by coming up with some plate that's so clever that these dunces you have nothing but contempt for flock to you to ask what it means. muhaha. BAHAHAA. Keep spending 14 hours a week trying to come up with a genius license plate, you wise aleck!
Not sure where all that pent-up angst came from. Yikes.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
The new posts are old posts.
The three posts below are actually old ones I wrote long ago and posted on Facebook. I just wanted to keep all my musings together in one page. Off to eat some more spaghetti.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Mishmash Hodge-Podge of Flim Flam
It is never okay to sport a mullet, unless you are a two-year-old with unfortunate hair and/or my niece Sophie.
I strongly believe that roughly 69.732% of all health problems and chronic diseases would be eradicated if people faithfully took enough magnesium, essential fatty acids, B vitamins, and probiotics.
Earlier I could not think of the word for someone who constantly believes they are sick; I just knew it started with an M. Turns out the word is hypochondriac.
Thousands of potentially curable cases of mercury poisoning are misdiagnosed as Alzheimer’s in this country every year. I recently learned that of a sampling of random fresh- and salt-water fish, 100% contained some level of mercury. How ironic is it that fish has always been touted as brain food?
I am a supremely indignant driver. If I learn that you text while driving, I will give you a stern and overly sanctimonious lecture.
Being in a car is sort of like being online. Other drivers become one-dimensional, and you behave in ways that you never would normally if you met these people outside the confines of your vehicle. I have raucously honked at people for cutting me off in traffic, but if the same thing happens in the toothpaste aisle at Target, I graciously smile and offer a pleasant “Oops, I’m sorry, am I in your way?”
I have plenty of will power. It’s won’t power that I need more of.
At work if I wash my hands and only quickly dry them so they are still slightly damp, it is that point at which I will run into my boss’s boss and he will greet me and extend his hand. There is no discreet way to finish drying my hands, but there is also no appropriate way to work into the conversation that my palms are really not sweating profusely either.
One of the bathrooms at work has a toilet with such low water pressure that you invariably have to flush twice. I hate using this bathroom. I just know that whoever is waiting outside the door is broadcasting to the rest of my coworkers that I’m a Repeat Flusher.
When my boss uses the number keypad on her keyboard, it looks like a tarantula trying to do DDR in slow motion. It makes me decidedly uncomfortable.
If I was stranded on a desert island and a genie granted me three items, I would choose the following:
• Google. Is there anything more annoying than trying to think of something and being unable to look it up? How am I supposed to build a shelter and find food when I’m preoccupied with trying to remember where the 'i' goes in the word palliative?
• My iPod. Nothing drives me crazy faster than an annoying song stuck in my head, and it's not going away if I don't have something else to listen to!
• Floss, because let’s face it- there is no good substitute for floss. And I had popcorn and peanuts during the in-flight movie shortly before the plane crashed.
I missed a connecting flight by one minute in the Houston airport. They had just shut the door when I came screaming up to the gate. Of course it was the last flight of the day and I had to spend the night in a hotel. I always pride myself on flying light, so I only had my wallet, which contained my Visa, ID, iPod, chapstick, eye drops, and about $7.. almost enough for a pop at the hotel where I stayed. I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed myself at that hotel. I was roughing it, and surviving to boot. That's when I knew I would have made a good boy scout.
There are certain words that just sound outlandish after being rapidly repeated ten times. Included in this list: ‘each’, ‘discuss’, and the name Lois.
Try to tell me that you haven’t ever once struggled to spell the word ‘of’.
Every time I go to the grocery store, I push my full, squeaking cart all the way down an aisle, fighting to keep it from perpetually veering to the right, when I come upon a Label Reader. Although her cart is parked on the right side of the aisle and she is standing equidistant from her cart and the shelves opposite, she thinks that shifting her weight from one leg to the other will leave me enough room to pass. I usually hover passive-aggressively for a good ten seconds, then I push my cart forward just slightly, hoping a loud squeak from one of my wheels will get her to look up. She somehow fails to notice that I have not passed by yet, and I end up having to do a five-point turn to get my cart turned around. All I want is a quick glance, a muttered apology, and wide enough berth to pass. ARGH.
I was the perfect parent until I had a kid.
People who like country music hate rap music, and people who like rap music hate country music. People who like anything else hate both country and rap.
Why is it so hard to write a thank you? If someone came up to me and said “Hey, I’ll give you $5 if you write a thank-you,” I would jump at the chance. The gifts I have received in my life have been worth far more than $5, and yet I struggle. Once I start writing it, I find that it comes easily, and I certainly don’t have trouble addressing and stamping the envelope.. so why is it so hard to start??
I love the smell of a wet garage. It’s hard to explain. I also love the smell of a car wash. Other smells I love: bleach, burning ditches, and, unknowably, the smell of a certain brand of cigarettes. I don’t know which brand, but I know it when I smell it.
I used to have a fascination with straws. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think I equated a straw with being out to eat or something. One time at Valley Fair I saw a straw laying on a table, and I grabbed it. I was probably ten years old. For whatever reason, I inhaled to clear the straw rather than blowing out. I tasted what I knew could only be beer. I got a little nauseous on a couple of the rides, which made me realize I was drunk, and I was so scared that my mom and dad would get mad at me. Needless to say, my interest in straws subsequently waned.
A wise philosopher once asked, “How can someone’s favorite Starburst flavor NOT be pink?” And while I think this is a legitimate question, I think it’s important to note that some of the time my favorite flavor is orange.
Starting a sentence with “I’m going to be honest with you” not only has the opposite effect you are intending, it also makes you sound like a corporate blowhard.
We used to tease Dad for being a slow driver. He was actually just a very cautious driver respectful of posted limits, which, now that I have a child of my own, I appreciate. I sure didn’t back then. We would crab loudly that we were the only vehicle on the highway that had bugs splattered all over the back.
If you ask my brother Scott for a limerick, this is the one he’ll give:
There once was a man from Calcutta
Who had a most horrible stutta.
He said, “Pass the h-ham,
And the j-j-j-jam,
And the b-b-b-b-b-b-buttah.”
My favorite thing to do in the whole world is put a puzzle together while drinking coffee with a multitude of cream and sugar and listen to a book on tape narrated by Michael Beck. Marcy and I did this all the time in high school.
**UPDATE** Marcy did not always do this. She also played Snood.
**MORE IMPORTANT UPDATE** I agonized over whether to use the word listen or listening. I still don't know which would be right. It's an awkwardly worded sentence. Forget you saw it.
At the risk of some pretty serious eye-rolling, I have to admit that the funniest people I know are my four siblings. When we all get together, at least one, if not all, of us will laugh until we squeal and cry uncontrollably. It scares small children, and even Scott a little.
If you want to see me vomit, all you have to do is brush your teeth in front of me and let the foam drip down your chin. When it has warmed to the temperature of your skin, suck it back in your mouth and swish it around. *SHUDDER* Scott has effectively scarred me for life.
I read in a magazine once that if you don't have chapstick and you are getting windburned lips while skiing, you just have to swipe the outside of your nose and rub it on your lips. Ready-made lip balm. Of course I made the mistake of telling this to everyone in front of my rotten, no-good brother-in-law Travis, and he has never let me forget it.
If you provoke my mom, she will affectionately say to you: "Oh, you're so dumb and ugly." My husband's eyes were the size of saucers the first time she said this to him.
If I am obeying the speed limit and you crowd me from behind, I will drive so impossibly slow that you will be convinced I am breaking all laws of physics. I have to go that slow; I'm so busy delivering a look that will turn you into a pillar of salt that I'm not watching the road.
Mom told me once that when they were growing up, Grandma Aggie told them that hitting each other causes cancer, so they never did it. I think that's a bit harsh. I'm going to tell my kids it causes acne. Then if that doesn't work, I'll graduate to cancer.
I can't help but grit my teeth every time someone says "I could care less," when they really mean to say they could NOT care less.
I strongly believe that roughly 69.732% of all health problems and chronic diseases would be eradicated if people faithfully took enough magnesium, essential fatty acids, B vitamins, and probiotics.
Earlier I could not think of the word for someone who constantly believes they are sick; I just knew it started with an M. Turns out the word is hypochondriac.
Thousands of potentially curable cases of mercury poisoning are misdiagnosed as Alzheimer’s in this country every year. I recently learned that of a sampling of random fresh- and salt-water fish, 100% contained some level of mercury. How ironic is it that fish has always been touted as brain food?
I am a supremely indignant driver. If I learn that you text while driving, I will give you a stern and overly sanctimonious lecture.
Being in a car is sort of like being online. Other drivers become one-dimensional, and you behave in ways that you never would normally if you met these people outside the confines of your vehicle. I have raucously honked at people for cutting me off in traffic, but if the same thing happens in the toothpaste aisle at Target, I graciously smile and offer a pleasant “Oops, I’m sorry, am I in your way?”
I have plenty of will power. It’s won’t power that I need more of.
At work if I wash my hands and only quickly dry them so they are still slightly damp, it is that point at which I will run into my boss’s boss and he will greet me and extend his hand. There is no discreet way to finish drying my hands, but there is also no appropriate way to work into the conversation that my palms are really not sweating profusely either.
One of the bathrooms at work has a toilet with such low water pressure that you invariably have to flush twice. I hate using this bathroom. I just know that whoever is waiting outside the door is broadcasting to the rest of my coworkers that I’m a Repeat Flusher.
When my boss uses the number keypad on her keyboard, it looks like a tarantula trying to do DDR in slow motion. It makes me decidedly uncomfortable.
If I was stranded on a desert island and a genie granted me three items, I would choose the following:
• Google. Is there anything more annoying than trying to think of something and being unable to look it up? How am I supposed to build a shelter and find food when I’m preoccupied with trying to remember where the 'i' goes in the word palliative?
• My iPod. Nothing drives me crazy faster than an annoying song stuck in my head, and it's not going away if I don't have something else to listen to!
• Floss, because let’s face it- there is no good substitute for floss. And I had popcorn and peanuts during the in-flight movie shortly before the plane crashed.
I missed a connecting flight by one minute in the Houston airport. They had just shut the door when I came screaming up to the gate. Of course it was the last flight of the day and I had to spend the night in a hotel. I always pride myself on flying light, so I only had my wallet, which contained my Visa, ID, iPod, chapstick, eye drops, and about $7.. almost enough for a pop at the hotel where I stayed. I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed myself at that hotel. I was roughing it, and surviving to boot. That's when I knew I would have made a good boy scout.
There are certain words that just sound outlandish after being rapidly repeated ten times. Included in this list: ‘each’, ‘discuss’, and the name Lois.
Try to tell me that you haven’t ever once struggled to spell the word ‘of’.
Every time I go to the grocery store, I push my full, squeaking cart all the way down an aisle, fighting to keep it from perpetually veering to the right, when I come upon a Label Reader. Although her cart is parked on the right side of the aisle and she is standing equidistant from her cart and the shelves opposite, she thinks that shifting her weight from one leg to the other will leave me enough room to pass. I usually hover passive-aggressively for a good ten seconds, then I push my cart forward just slightly, hoping a loud squeak from one of my wheels will get her to look up. She somehow fails to notice that I have not passed by yet, and I end up having to do a five-point turn to get my cart turned around. All I want is a quick glance, a muttered apology, and wide enough berth to pass. ARGH.
I was the perfect parent until I had a kid.
People who like country music hate rap music, and people who like rap music hate country music. People who like anything else hate both country and rap.
Why is it so hard to write a thank you? If someone came up to me and said “Hey, I’ll give you $5 if you write a thank-you,” I would jump at the chance. The gifts I have received in my life have been worth far more than $5, and yet I struggle. Once I start writing it, I find that it comes easily, and I certainly don’t have trouble addressing and stamping the envelope.. so why is it so hard to start??
I love the smell of a wet garage. It’s hard to explain. I also love the smell of a car wash. Other smells I love: bleach, burning ditches, and, unknowably, the smell of a certain brand of cigarettes. I don’t know which brand, but I know it when I smell it.
I used to have a fascination with straws. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think I equated a straw with being out to eat or something. One time at Valley Fair I saw a straw laying on a table, and I grabbed it. I was probably ten years old. For whatever reason, I inhaled to clear the straw rather than blowing out. I tasted what I knew could only be beer. I got a little nauseous on a couple of the rides, which made me realize I was drunk, and I was so scared that my mom and dad would get mad at me. Needless to say, my interest in straws subsequently waned.
A wise philosopher once asked, “How can someone’s favorite Starburst flavor NOT be pink?” And while I think this is a legitimate question, I think it’s important to note that some of the time my favorite flavor is orange.
Starting a sentence with “I’m going to be honest with you” not only has the opposite effect you are intending, it also makes you sound like a corporate blowhard.
We used to tease Dad for being a slow driver. He was actually just a very cautious driver respectful of posted limits, which, now that I have a child of my own, I appreciate. I sure didn’t back then. We would crab loudly that we were the only vehicle on the highway that had bugs splattered all over the back.
If you ask my brother Scott for a limerick, this is the one he’ll give:
There once was a man from Calcutta
Who had a most horrible stutta.
He said, “Pass the h-ham,
And the j-j-j-jam,
And the b-b-b-b-b-b-buttah.”
My favorite thing to do in the whole world is put a puzzle together while drinking coffee with a multitude of cream and sugar and listen to a book on tape narrated by Michael Beck. Marcy and I did this all the time in high school.
**UPDATE** Marcy did not always do this. She also played Snood.
**MORE IMPORTANT UPDATE** I agonized over whether to use the word listen or listening. I still don't know which would be right. It's an awkwardly worded sentence. Forget you saw it.
At the risk of some pretty serious eye-rolling, I have to admit that the funniest people I know are my four siblings. When we all get together, at least one, if not all, of us will laugh until we squeal and cry uncontrollably. It scares small children, and even Scott a little.
If you want to see me vomit, all you have to do is brush your teeth in front of me and let the foam drip down your chin. When it has warmed to the temperature of your skin, suck it back in your mouth and swish it around. *SHUDDER* Scott has effectively scarred me for life.
I read in a magazine once that if you don't have chapstick and you are getting windburned lips while skiing, you just have to swipe the outside of your nose and rub it on your lips. Ready-made lip balm. Of course I made the mistake of telling this to everyone in front of my rotten, no-good brother-in-law Travis, and he has never let me forget it.
If you provoke my mom, she will affectionately say to you: "Oh, you're so dumb and ugly." My husband's eyes were the size of saucers the first time she said this to him.
If I am obeying the speed limit and you crowd me from behind, I will drive so impossibly slow that you will be convinced I am breaking all laws of physics. I have to go that slow; I'm so busy delivering a look that will turn you into a pillar of salt that I'm not watching the road.
Mom told me once that when they were growing up, Grandma Aggie told them that hitting each other causes cancer, so they never did it. I think that's a bit harsh. I'm going to tell my kids it causes acne. Then if that doesn't work, I'll graduate to cancer.
I can't help but grit my teeth every time someone says "I could care less," when they really mean to say they could NOT care less.
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