Showering is for Yuppies

Let it be known that my shower usage has doubled since I graduated from college. I feel like that is a pretty important point to make. Doubled. At the very least.

That’s not saying much since I showered about twice a week.

Good thing that whole ‘granola’ phase is still going strong. Keep it up oh wearers of fanny packs, Chacos and  keepers of the hammocks. It is due to your love of Mother Nature and conservation that I can get away with waking up 20 minutes before I have to be at work.

If you, too, would like to join me in my sneaky chameleon scheme of blending in with the hippies, but are searching for the proper disguise, have no fear. I have prepared a handy list for your convenience:

1.       Hats that look like afghans or some other sort of crocheted doily(+2 if made from Alpaca fur)

2.       Baby powder to absorb the three day old oil due to shower protests (+1 for every day past three)

3.       Vegan shoes (-7 if you think this is an edible treat)

4.       A fleece jacket that cost more than the average person’s bike (-1 if you bought it anywhere  but REI or Whole Earth)

5.       A bike that cost more than the average person’s car (+3 if you can pedal it backwards)

6.       A loaf of bread for all the sandwiches you will have to eat to pay for #’s 4 & 5. (+1 if its organic)

7.       A ukulele (-1 if only a guitar)

8.       A Frisbee (+1 if used while barefoot +2 if you add a hammock)

9.       Tattoo of favorite verse on either wrist or foot…or if you REALLY love Jesus, both

10.   A five year plan that involves Africa, summer camp, hiking some sort of trail, or ‘finding yourself’. (+5 if you ‘find yourself’ WHILE in Africa, at summer camp, or on some sort of mountainous summit)

11.   Pick favorite bands that utilize a harmonica and lots of area rugs on stage (+7 if they only play in obscure venues that require tents)

12.   Create an online store on Etsy and sell something with birds or mushrooms on it ((+3 if it is for babies) those aren't birds on my background...they're terradactyls...)

I wish I could say that 50% of these didn’t apply to me…I can’t. Welp. I’m off to Africa. See you guys after I find my purpose in life.

But seriously...that would be cool.

Apples to Apples

I am parched. Not in a metaphorical sense. Literally. Thirsty. I’ve got a terrible case of cotton mouth and I’m getting a bit woozy from dehydration. Problem? No way because I went to the grocery store and planned for a situation just like this. I stock piled tasty concoctions to tempt my taste buds. Aka I bought some apple juice.

Said apple juice spent the afternoon cooling in the fridge to the satisfyingly chilly temperature that is appropriate for juices of the apple variety. I spent my commute dreaming of the adventure my juice and I would have. There are no silly roommates to drink my juice unbeknownst to me and my tastebuds. Just me and my juice. Sitting on my couch. Being hydrated. And tasty.

I practically bounced up my stairs to enjoy some dinner and a tall glass of juice. I frolicked into the kitchen straight to the cupboard to get a glass, grabbed the never-been-opened bottle of golden elixir, and twisted the cap, listening for that delightful snap of plastic that says ‘hey, I was meant for you. Here I am in, pure and untouched’. But that sound never came.

Try as I might, I cannot open that stupid bottle. It’s like a steel trap, taunting me from the countertop. My hand is red from failed attempts. I’m a bit sweaty as I sit on the floor of my kitchen, ashamed and even thirstier than I started.

My apartment is littered with attempts at independence, some more successful than others. There is the couch I paid for, the pictures I managed to hang and the small stain from the man-sized bug I killed amidst my squeals of disgust.

Smatterings of failures sit quietly in the nooks and crannies of my humble abode. There is the large mirror that requires some sort of pulley system to hoist it above my bed (not something I want to just guess at seeing as how failure equal decapitation…and I kinda like my head). My sink is more like a small lake, but since a cable auger sounds like some sort of foreign beer, I don’t think that one is happening anytime soon. And now, the apple juice bottle has joined the ranks of countless other inanimate objects that have thus far bested my adulthood.

It is at this point in the movie that some unassumingly attractive man would enter the scene, offering his services for only a glass of water. My sink clog of doom would then explode on him, requiring me to wash his shirt while he continued to untangle hairballs from the drain. He would be fit and incredibly witty...duh. Seeing my mirror sitting on the floor, he would pull a stud-finder from his back pocket and Macgyver the two ton monster to the wall. When I asked if he was thirsty, he would say ‘Ya know…apple juice sounds fantastic’. Since, I am so dainty he would come to my rescue, easily removing the cap that is more than likely welded together to enjoy its refreshing contents….

Oh wait…this isn’t a movie. I don’t need rescuing. I just need something sharp enough to stab a hole in the top of this apple juice jar.

Gypsy.

I had corn for dinner. Not like fancy corn…just corn…in a bag. It’s like the Franzia of dinners.  It’s not like I didn’t have time to cook something more extravagant. Heck, even a frozen pizza would be a step up from this bagged treat, and yet here I sit, each wretched spoonful reminding me of the dinner guests I do not have. The steam creeping out of the handy ventilation system reeks of solitude.

Okay…I’m being dramatic. But seriously, this corn is a joke.

I find it difficult these days to cook a solid meal. My portions are all wrong. At the grocery store I try to be economical, but every container is built for families of four. There is, of course, the frozen food aisle of depression. Pushing my behemoth of a shopping basket around corners, filling it with embarrassingly small servings of fresh produce (umm, excuse me, can I only take 13 strawberries? And a half of an onion?) and every “single” option in the frozen food section (skillet for one, veggies for one, pasta for one, pity party for one…). Hey, HEB, I would love to cook enough for the block, but due to the lack of guests at my table, I’m going to need you to dial it back a bit.

It has taken me several trips to master the art of “shopping for one” and it all revolves around the magic of the baby cart. Step back soccer moms. Enjoy your giant cart filled with Captain Crunch and 6 loaves of bread. Step aside stay at home dads with your giant tube of ground chuck. Me and baby cart are coming through with our daintily packaged salad mixings and organic low-fat milk. Baby cart takes corners like a dream, and easily skirts the old lady taking her time by the cheese. Grab some gruyèré and get out of the way, Grandma. There is some Swiss that needs my attention. Then, it’s off to the wine aisle.

Franzia, like this corn, is a submission to mediocrity. With the quantity of choices on the wine aisle, it would be a travesty to choose the same terrible concoction every time. I would not say that I am a wine connoisseur, if fact, seldom do I meet a wine that I do not like. Some are better than others, but for the most part if they hang in the balance and stay somewhere south of dry and north of sweet, I am good to go. Wine is kind of like guys’ cologne. I am a fan of all, but blown away by few…with the exception of the elusive gypsy wine.

If I am being honest with myself, I keep wine in my house as a pretense. I enjoy it, but I hate drinking alone. In the movies, city savvy women always have a great selection of beverages on hand. Oh, would you like a drink dashingly handsome man that helped me bring up my grocery bags as I stumbled up the stairs with my milk and eggs? I have 7 choices of wine, 3 organic sodas, craft ales, 13 different flavors of tea, 4 types of juice and of course water...that has been filtered through pure gold. In my mind, without a plethora of hydration options, I will fail my calling as a single woman.

Every trip baby cart and I take to the wine aisle ends in my selecting one with the coolest bottle. One day, my childish selection turned out to be a game changer. Enter: Gypsy Wine. Typically I keep all my empty bottles as a cheap way to “decorate” the super awkward space above my counters. Besides, stupid fake vines and dust bunnies, there is really nothing that goes up there...and I can’t reach, so it’s pointless.

The one and only night I have had a real live dinner guest at my house, I opened a bottle of wine that to this day, I have never found again. It is also the one bottle that I managed to throw away. I bought it because it reminded me of the Renaissance Festival (two words: turkey legs. Okay 4 words: turkey legs; knife throwing…what?!) and it was under $10, which makes it a champ in my book. Little did I know I was accepting a challenge when I uncorked that bottle. The challenge of the gypsies. A challenge that would take me to grocery store aisles near and far in search of the one that got away.

 I have searched high and low for my Gypsy Wine, but in true gypsy fashion it has remained just out of my reach. What makes Gypsy Wine so great? I can’t quite put my finger on it. It is like that perfect scent that wafts gently from a man, the perfect balance of masculinity and the all-too-seldom scent of cleanliness. Both legends crossed my path since my immersion into the world of independence and solitude.

Most cologne smells exactly the same. Abercrombie, Polo, Armani, Burberry, mixed with the all-encompassing Old Spice (seriously…you ALL wear it). It’s a pretty cut and dry science. But every once in a while, someone will step out of the box and find a scent that is bold in its unfamiliarity. Enter: Gypsy Scent, admittedly harder to find, due to the need of a perfectly timed question for said cologne wearer. Too soon and you look like you have a crush. In a crowd and you look like a stalker. Alone and you look like a hussy. I choose the ‘take in a super deep breath if he is in your vicinity approach’. 

I have been graced with a scent I cannot place, and a wine I cannot find.

If you find my Gypsy Wine, tell it I miss it. I am sure it is sitting around a fire with the bards, recanting its adventures of HEB shelves everywhere. Reveling in the attention the other wines give it because its label looks like a cross between Starry Night and a Tim Burton film, and theirs looks like a Photoshop mishap.

And if you figure out how to ask someone what their cologne is because they smell intoxicating…let me know. Until then, I shall remain the creepy girl that stands too close in a crowd hoping to get just one more whiff of his gypsy scent.

Holy Huff'n'Puff

A few weeks I saw a really cool commercial about trail running and decided it was my new calling. Hitting the trail sporting some sweet Dry-Fit, breathing in the fresh air, each step taking me closer to my goal of health and wellness (I’m totally kidding myself, I mean great thighs and a flat tummy). 

So after work, I embarked upon my first outdoor running excursion.  My mind was right, my outfit perfectly suited to wick away the dainty amount of sweat I would soon be wiping from my brow (still kidding myself, I’m a sweater. It’s like Niagra Falls down my spinal canal).  

Just me and the trail head. Shall I go right to start off slow? No way. Three mile trek? Done. Steepness: Use extreme caution? You bet. 

I talk to myself on a normal basis, but when working to self-motivate, there is the equivalent of a 7^th grade Pep Squad in my head. Yeah girl! You get that! You totally look so great right now. But when my energy well started to get a bit parched, the pep squad turned into an internal battle of logic. One part of me thought it was a fantastic idea to run up hill and walk the ridge, the other said start slow and work your way up. Welp, the crazy part won.

It started off pretty easy, some mulch and a slight incline. Then I came to the staircase sketched out of boulders. It was like the Aggro Crag on GUTS, except there was no glitter cannon awaiting my ascent to the summit.  After my fourth clumsy scramble over a rock the size of a Volkswagon, I coughed a lung up on the trail, but still plunged onward and upward. 

Being the overly competitive person that I am, I found myself unable to stop for a breather when other people are about. So, when near collapsing on the trail, rather than suck up my pride, I decided to deploy my best Christian girl tactic, The Holy Huff n’ Puff. (not to be confused with Hufflepuff….my 2^nd favorite House). It’s where I have a “quiet time”, when really I am just trying to remember how to breathe, one lung short, with a waterfall of sweat stinging my eyes. While outdoors getting your fit on, remember one thing. No one can judge you if you are chatting with God.

"Excuse me, ma’am, do you need an oxygen tank? Your face is abnormally red.” Yeah, no thanks lady. I’m having my quiet time on this rock, taking in God’s creation. I only stopped my job to stand in awe of this cedar tree that isn’t at all like the 3,000 others by it. God creates each thing unique, so I am appreciating each tree by bending over to see the roots made by God. I shall inspect them thoroughly…and then puke on them a bit. 

You may think I am using God…but I’m not. I’m totally talking to him. Just instead of thanking him for the beauty around me, it’s more of a plea to help me get off of this mountain alive. 

I’m packing up my trail shoes and sticking to the gym.

He's Going to Be A Terrible Father

In high school, my softball coach told me that a batter’s only decision is not to swing. Every time the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand you should be looking for a homerun. Swing for the fence until something stops you. Apparently, I thought that would be a great idea in my dating life. Instead of getting to know a guy then developing a crush, I choose to dive in head first until I learn that he is a drug dealer…or worse, that he wears a visor.

With only a creepy observation from a far, I can calculate our compatibility. Observe:

Oh, he’s tall. That’s nice. He’s a good guy…wearing a fanny pack. Man I love a guy in a fanny pack. And TOMS. I love TOMS. Is that a precious blue-eyed child on his shoulders? I want one of those. He has blue eyes. I have blue eyes. We’re like blue-eyed soul mates…like that Carey Brother’s song. Holy schnikes, he’s playing basketball. He could coach their Little Dribbler team, since we are getting married.  Ummm hi, are those JCrew jeans? Of course they are. My soulmate only wears JCrew. He’s going to look great in that JCrew suit at our wedding where he croons the sweet sweet sounds of Bublè at me while dancing the perfectly choreographed steps of our first dace….after we read 1 Corinthians together, duh. We are Christians, it’s a given. He loves Jesus. I love Jesus. We would be the cutest married couple ever. We’re totally getting married. Three blonde children. All five of us sitting on the front pew of our church where he is an elder and we lead a married couple’s class for engaged couples because our marriage is so healthy. It’s full of great sex and deep conversation and dancing in the kitchen after a lovely meal that I have cooked, while he washes the dishes with a smile on his face in our precious house on our precious street where all of our friends live that throw great dinner parties and also have great sex and deep conversation and the wives get pedicures while the men go golfing. One day, we will drop our kids off for our anniversary and travel to Europe to backpack through Italy (with our matching fanny packs).  Gosh, he’s perfect for me. We are totally getting married.

That entire thought took about three seconds. Which is why I have mentally married upwards of 500 dudes.

But I have found the antidote to my mental marriage plague. It’s called “he’s going to be a terrible father”.  

Any time you are on the verge of falling in love with someone you met 2 minutes ago because he’s doing something super great like loving children…you can use this tactic. Simply name a terrible trait that he may or may not have out loud. It must be out loud to stop your brain from vomiting soul mate ooze everywhere. I have composed a list of some of my favorites:

-He’s going to be a drug dealer.

-He is going to get fat and wear white wife beaters.

-He doesn’t know who Mike Singletary is.

-He has tiny carney hands.

-His breath will perpetually smell like stale beer.

-He punted a puppy once.

-He blows his nose in the shower.

-His idea of a date is taking you to CiCi’s.

-He thinks Dutch Ovens at bedtime are funny…

-Once, when a child dropped a stuffed animal at his feet, he punched the kid.

-He hates Food Network.

-He has mom issues.

-He wears socks and sandals.

But seriously, he’s going to be a terrible father.

My Skin Is On Fire

It feels like someone bottled up the sun, mixed it with magma, and poured it down my back. My skin is boiling lava hot right now. For years I told the world that I do not get sunburns. I’m a blonde; therefore I tan beautifully. I think it was a vain attempt at being the surfer I always dreamed I was. But now, with what feels like the fiery gates of hell licking at my preciously pre-tanned tummy, I begrudgingly admit that I do in fact burn when exposed to sunlight.

My tanning fiasco is just one of the many consequences of the bed of lies I have slowly accumulated over the years, like convincing myself that I look better 20 pounds too heavy, or that a perm was a good idea.  Let us not forget about the punk rock days of high school when I thought that since I was dating a guitar riffing aficionado that I, too, should adorn myself in Good Charlotte concert tees and Dickies. The only good thing that came out of that phase was an appreciation of a worn in pair of Chucks and confirmation that I should never wear black eyeliner…because I’m not a vampire…and vampires are awful (hold your objections right here, 13 year olds are the only ones agreeing with you, that has to prove my point).

Though a perm did create a web of insecurities that I am sure a therapist will one day have to unravel, the most obvious effect of these perpetual lies is that the girl I see in the mirror every morning is not the invincible woman that I have created. 

We spend so much time working to create a list of criteria for our future mates. A perfect blend of our physical, emotional and spiritual desires are weighed and measured until we have created what we believe to be the peanut butter to our jelly. Problem is, I don’t know what kind of jelly I am. 

I think we may have this dating thing backwards. How can we even begin to imagine that we are capable of being emotionally responsible with someone’s heart if we don’t even know who we are?  Instead of starting with a list of things we are looking for in our companions, maybe we should be honest with ourselves and provide a list of who we really are. Our résumé if you will. Maybe we should all sit down and give ourselves a good hard look in the mirror. 

At this point, here is what I know I am looking for: a dude, who is best friends with Jesus, do we really have the prerogative to ask for more than that?

So raise your hypothetical glass to being honest with the world around you. No longer will I lie to society and thus bring down the fires of hell onto my pre-summer skin. No longer will I see the world through the lens of that list I made in 7^th grade that encompassed all my girlish desires. I will create a new list, one that spells out the quirks and nuances that make me, me. 

Maybe when a guy asks for my number I’ll just slide that puppy across and say “Hey, bro. Peruse this. Figure out if you’re down. Then give me a call.”

I’ll go first. Stay tuned for my résumé.

Delusional

By now it should be clear that I am crazy. Certifiably insane and more than likely bound for 75 cats’ companionship for the rest of my life. If you are one of the few lone travelers sitting on the fence between my insanity and the possibility that I may still be allowed to interact in society, sit tight. I’m about to remove all doubt.

I have a bad habit of perpetually living in a day dream. My mind exists in a different reality than the rest of my body. I spend a lot of time alone these days, for good reason, I would avoid me too. I am so often lost in my own thoughts, that I think I may have forgotten how to come back. 

If the world were as I imagined, it would be beautiful, but not because there would be unicorns and rainbows running rampant. It would not be a world filled with chocolates and red roses (mostly because they are the worst flower known to mankind). It would not even be a world free of fights and sadness. It would be filled with perfectly-timed clever comments and unselfish truth.

Alas, the world is not like that, nor am I, but that doesn’t stop me from crying every time my night does not go like I imagined it. My imagination is the Molotov cocktail to the reality of my life.

In my head I know exactly how I want every interaction to go. My imagination uses a delicate balance of wit, sarcasm, compliments and cinema quality scenes to create the perfect evening…which never happens. Okay, so maybe getting caught in a rain storm while strolling through the park one evening isn’t common, but it’s not like I’m asking for a lot.  All I require is a boo (that’s slang for male companion), a quaint park, waterproof mascara, a cute outfit, and some precise atmospheric conditions. 

I wish I could say that I was normal and only planned big moments, like engagements, first kisses and meeting my Hollywood crush (Paul Bettany, we are soulmates), but that would be wrong. Oh so wrong. I was going to give you a classic example from a few nights back of a bacon cookie expedition that went awry and derailed my entire day, but why go three days back when I am being a psycho right now? 

While sitting at my favorite table, at my favorite coffee shop, I have become best friends with the guy sitting by me. He is studying biochem for a final that is on Monday. He’s on chapter 12, the chapter about the bicarbonate buffering system. He was in the military before starting college and is just about finished with his undergrad.  We bonded over our mutual hatred of the music coming over the speakers. Then, we both slapped a mosquito at the same time, causing some giggles which have blossomed into a friendship. We both come here on a regular basis, so it was bound to happen. He has a tattoo, which has been a recent obsession of mine. I want one really bad, so we started talking about the least trampy place for girls to get tattoos, and how bad it would hurt.

It just so happens that this guy, Michael, really enjoys sketching, so after I described what I wanted, he doodled a bit and is randomly holding them up for me to rate. Right now we both have our headphones on which has eliminated conversation…but that’s fine…because we’re best friends. 

Did I mention that NONE of this happened? We actually haven’t spoken apart from the, now two times he has been polite enough to utter a quiet ‘bless you’ when I blast the serenity with a sneeze (I have allergies..back off).

This specific incidence of crazy is tame. I don’t even like this guy (duh..I don’t know him apart from my obsessive musing). I am not overly attracted to him (two words: cargo zipants..okay so like 2.5 words), and he is totally not my type (note: no fanny pack or other outdoorsy paraphernalia apart from a Nalgene. But everyone has those. And he has Oakleys on the back of his head. I bet there’s a visor hidden somewhere in the depths of his trunk, right next to an O.A.R. album and his Corona logo laden board shorts equipped with a wax comb for the surfboard he inevitably does not have).

If I can create such extensive delusions from a polite glance, imagine the worlds I can create for moments that actually mean something. I have lost more pleasant evenings to the funk of misdirected hopes than I care to admit. I place unrealistic expectations on people who have no choice but to fail miserably at a task they were never privy to. 

Have I allowed my romance-driven fantasies to so far skew my perception of a ‘good-time’ that I will no longer be satisfied with the simple joys of a night in? I continue to set my hopes on these compilations of my girlish fantasies. It’s like a drug addiction. As I am shooting up with another dose of false hopes, my head is screaming to stop. Stop setting yourself and everyone else up for failure. Stop allowing your thoughts to control your emotions. Stop putting the world around you on a pedestal that is bound to crumble. And yet I pick up the syringe again and again, a serial emotional masochist living in a haze of regret and disappointment, allowing the empty joys of the unreal to steal the uncharted joys of the present.