Wisdom-less

Diets are on the hearts and minds of every girl from about January through…Spring Break. Right about now, self-control is giving way to self-loathing and late night binges filled with cupcakes, Reese’s cups and 73 breadsticks when you totes only meant to have like 1/7^th of that one at Olive Garden.  Ladies, I have finally found a secret weapon. One that is so powerful, you have no hope but to lose 7 lbs. Throw out that arsenal of relentless calorie counting, stressing over sugars and battling your gag reflex as you force down some sort of cayenne pepper concoction straight from the fiery pits of hell. Let me tell you about my little secret:

Wisdom teeth removal.

 Liquid diet, doctor’s orders; and if that prescription weren’t enough, your entire face feels like it got river danced on by the starting line from the Packers, so the thought of a cheeseburger really makes me want to cry and shove my face in an ice pack. 

Ironically, though I have eaten a total of like 23 calories since surgery a few days ago….my face looks like I stuffed it full of cheese puffs and then gargled with Mountain Dew to really seal the Fatty McFatFat deal. Going to work was awesome. The revolving doors were at max capacity with my 95 bottles of pain meds and chipmunk cheeks, the jars of soup had to find their own way in. 

I think I had a mental breakdown when the doctor told me I would have to eat ice cream and mashed potatoes all day. Sounds great, Doc, but bathing suit season is like 172 days away….now is not the time to lose our cool and jump into bed with the carbohydrates. I’m a 21^st century woman. Let’s make the most of a bad situation, drop some pounds and amp up my self-esteem, all on my insurance’s dollar.

First things first, I need some trendy all-liquid recipes to match my trendy post-surgery outfit. Pinterest it is. Faux mashed potatoes? Check. Skinny peanut butter banana smoothie? Duh. Low Cal Jello? Don’t mind if I do. All while rocking super hipster headbands, oversized shirts that could fit me and the 600 pound lady, and the ever popular yoga pant.

I make the road to recovery look good. 

Feeling domestic, I thought I would spend an enjoyable evening baking treats, jamming to some folk music and basking in the cleanliness of my apartment (thanks to a very welcome house guest who shall be known as Nurse Mom, who left me well stocked with pudding, jello, Gatorade and cleaning supplies). One should be smart enough in their twenties to mitigate all known risks from certain activities. Baking banana bread bars during a medical fast is an awful idea. Mother Theresa didn’t have that sort of self control, clearly I don’t. 

It’s just squishy banana bread, how bad could it be, right? I can handle avocado. I sipped some chicken broth today. Chewing some warm gooey treats shouldn’t be that far off in right field. 

Wrong.

After cursing the walnut that snuck past my molars right into my gaping tooth hole, and spitting soggy bread dribble out of my mouth, I immediately regretted my impatient move towards solid food. 

Curse you, solid food! Curse you and your delightful texture and tummy filling ways. I shall bid you farewell for the next five days and continue my saga along the trail of soggy, my trek along the track of tepid salt water rinses and puréed veggies. Sayonara, steak, until we meet again my tasty friend. I, seven pounds lighter, and you sturdy and filling, I bid you adieu.

Post-Vacay Blues

I spent the last week gallivanting around the Emerald Isle in search of forest nymphs and fairies. Instead I found blue-butted sheep and my soul mate.

Let’s be clear here. After a quick calculation of the number of church camps I have been to plus the vacations I have been on, divided by a few bad hair days, he is approximately Soul Mate #49 and shall henceforth be known as Ireland.

Ireland and I started as any normal couple would start. We shared a sultry glance across a crowded room. Then things got pretty intense. We said four sentences while waiting for my parents to finish their drinks. Love isn’t wordy. Then, I did what I am assuming to be a coquettish American giggle followed by some sort of hip flick-y/eye batting combo thing that resulted in his undying endearment. Our connection was beyond conversation….duh….we’re soulmates. (Clearly, those four sentences were mind blowing). It was a whirlwind affair that ended a few short hours after it started. 

After 49 similar experiences, I have finally learned not to dwell on these encounters. My imagination makes ‘falling in love’ an everyday occurrence that takes place somewhere in my twisted mind. One particular episode took place after my sophomore year at church camp. I met Flip Flops, who was ‘the most beautiful boy I had ever seen’. We sat together at lunch and during worship, spent our free time playing volleyball and basketball, and did what every church camp couple does….smear each other with shaving cream and pudding during messy day. It was the stuff romance movies are made of. When I got home, I knew I would never hear from him again….but I dwelled on our interactions for days.

When I was younger, I dreaded the days immediately following my return home. It didn’t matter if I left for two weeks on a family vacation or a week to youth camp; I call it the Post Vacation Funk. The Funk has ended all but one relationship that I’ve been in and lead to more tears than I care to recall. It’s like a cloud of depression and discontent fills the void left from the freedom of traveling. For a few short days, I can free myself of the burden of the mundane and live one adventure after another. Ireland was my biggest adventure yet….and the Funk is knocking on my door. 

I have my back against the door, holding the Funk at bay as it claws its way back into my life. I thought I was old enough to avoid it, but the inevitable restlessness has settled in. There is no boyfriend to get rid of, no new chapter on its way, only the endless days of work ahead. Is this grass always greener? In this case…yes. I mean it was Ireland. Not to mention that we haven’t seen rain since 2004. 

The metaphorical grass is so tantalizing. It lures me in every single time, despite my knowledge of its deception. In my head, my life would be exactly what I want it to be, would encompass every dream, every desire, every facet of my imagination that my current life lacks. 

Discontent is a constant battle in my life. It seems that what is at one time exhilarating quickly becomes the mundane in the expectation of newer and better things. Like a pool of water, my life requires a fresh flow to avoid stagnancy.

With the future looming as such a large unknown, I find myself quickly latching onto each new stream that offers a taste of crisp clean hydration, however small its source may be. Whether planning my entire life during a four sentence encounter, or planning a cross-continent move while daily scrolling through the travel sites, nothing in my current situation seems enough to hold my attention for the long haul. What is it about me that needs constant renewing? The answer is simple: my soul, the very essence of my creation is based on the need for revival and transformation, yet daily, I look to other sources of renewal rather than relying on the Source of redemption.

Spanx Make My Thighs Sad

Sometimes I want to punch the inventors of silk in the face. Why would anyone create such an unforgiving fabric? Those extra 2 ounces I put on from the Christmas cookie are clearly visible on the lower left side of my back bulge, which is unacceptable as one of the bridesmaids of the stupid beautiful bridal party I was included in several weeks ago. 

It’s like People magazine vomited on this wedding party. Since I am anti-diets, I traded a few cheeseburgers prior to the big day for a salad or two and crossed my fingers that the dress would zip up. But as I sat pinching the unwanted bumps in my dress, I decided it was time for reinforcements. It’s time to bring in the Spanx.

Spanx form an impenetrable fortress of the fat blocking kind. It’s like creating a tiny prison for your chubby parts. Not tonight, Back Fat, you are going to have to stay put. I would much rather not be able to breathe…or sit down….or eat…or laugh comfortably, than have you make an appearance tonight.

I’m starting to sympathize with the bra-burning hippie feminists.

Spanx may be the least attractive thing ever created, strangely enough, to make you appear more attractive. This enigmatic product is the bane of my existence.

Curse you, Spanx. Curse you and your uncomfortable fabric that looks like my grandma’s unmentionables.

When we get right down to the meat of the matter, Spanx will only become more prevalent in my life as I age and one day have children (those little guys pretty much ruin your ability to ever wear silk…or a size 4…ever again).

I feel for all of the husbands who have ever seen their wives in Spanx. That has to scar someone. It’s like watching a hotdog get made….you may never again eat at a backyard BBQ. But, how do you avoid the situation?

Here are a couple of options:

1. Install a Clap Off light system in my room, so I can clap off before the hypothetical husband sees me in the anti-libido contraption of doom. Then ensure that nowhere in our frisky encounter do I see that need to give us applause. (No promises on this one. Give credit where credit is due. If the man deserves a handclap of praise (not to be confused with those really weird handclaps at church) then he will get one))  
2. Make punching my husband in the face to induce temporary blindness a typical part of our foreplay, thus giving me a few seconds to slip—read: wrestle my way out of—the Spanx, while he will be none the wiser…and more turned on than when we started.
3. Become a nun. Simple, yet effective.
4. Lose weight and be happy with my body……pfffff yeah right
5. Find Harry Potter and figure out how to steal his magic so I can cast a spell that make me appear lean and fit and bump free.

Clearly, #5 is the way to go.

So, Are You Dating Anyone?

What do Christmas and your Singles Ministry have in common?

If you thought it was Jesus….you’re wrong. C’mon Sunday School answer, think outside of the box. Just because church is involved doesn’t mean the answer is always Jesus, sometimes it’s God, or Holy Spirit…..or Nebuchadnezzar.

The answer: They’re always getting in your business trying to play matchmaker. 

Like many a sardonic single has stated, Christmas makes solitude glaringly apparent. As friends and family members depart to spend time with their ‘other’ side of the family, and each start frantically searching for a gift that truly represents their unabashed love for their lobster (read: soulmate…whatever that means), the wary single prepares for the storm of loneliness that may or may not come knocking on their door sometime between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

 Even if you can buck up and make it past the need to stroll hand-in-hand while looking at the Christmas lights, the lack of snogging when the ball drops is sure to elicit some desire to have the opposite sex around…unless it’s that really creepy guy who has been eyeing you all night (which there always is one), in which case my only response is: You’re better than that. Don’t stoop. I promise it won’t be worth it. Just grab another glass of champagne from your friends who are otherwise occupied with their dates and give yourself a toast because you would much rather be that girl who double-fisted Brute all night, then that girl who took a desperate dive into the face of someone’s awkward cousin who was visiting from Kansas for the weekend.

The first question out of the mouths of my aunts, cousins and the women at church are all the same. It is like the married woman mantra: So, are you dating anyone? Apparently, answering that you are really focused on your career right now translates into something along the lines of “I can’t find anyone who will go on a second date with me and all I really want to do is get married, but I’m incapable of sealing the deal”, which is strange because I thought it meant “I’m focusing on my career right now”. Good news: When you say “I do”, you also learn how to read minds. Marriage is magic. 

Half of society is telling me to settle down now, because I’m only getting older, but the other half is telling me I’m still young and need to live life. Interestingly, the Christian crowd is of the former persuasion. 

Somehow Christianity has become synonymous with a married lifestyle, which is strange considering how the writers of our handbook were single and loving it. I’m pretty sure the disciples never sat down and were like look, Bro, I love that you are out spreading the gospel and whatnot…but what I’m really concerned about is your dating life. Are you sure you want to be focusing on your career right now? You should probably find someone to settle down with. After all, you aren’t getting any younger, and your robe is starting to fit a little snug around the waist. I’m just saying. 

Now before all you domestic lovin’ ladies get all up in my kool-aid, I’m going to need you to hear me out. In no way am I saying the marriage is not a good thing, I’m sure it’s great, but it is not, and cannot, be my sole —or soul’s— goal in life.  We were created for more. 

As I beat back the desires brought by singlehood during this season, I want to remember the reason I am celebrating in the first place. (Cue lame Christmas clichés: Jesus is the Reason for the Season, HOLYday, ect.) If you find yourself in that place of longing, dwell on the words of Song of Solomon:

 ⁷ Oh, let me warn you, sisters in Jerusalem,
   by the gazelles, yes, by all the wild deer:
Don't excite love, don't stir it up,
   until the time is ripe—and you're ready.

                                                The Message

We have to stop forcing ourselves to be ready because it feels like you failed if you aren’t.

Here's Johnny

Some of the most vivid memories of my childhood are of those moments in the middle of the night, laying flat as a pancake praying to God that I would sink into my mattress, willing my mom to hear the faint whimpers I managed to squeak out and come running into my room to rub my tiny back, sticky from the cold sweat clinging to my favorite jammies—the pink baseball uniform.

I’m in my twenties and that helpless, paralyzing fear has once again taken over, granted this time it’s warranted…I’m staying in a real-life haunted hotel.

If I was down with cursing, I would drop a long litany of words that would make my Grandmother blush because it’s down to either that or crying big sloppy tears while staring down the baby door in the corner that is surely housing some tiny ghost that wants to eat me.

It started like any other horror movie. Cute girl (what’s up, self-compliment?) far away from home, stepping foot into a situation that you, as the viewer, think “What the frick are you doing, girl? Get outta there!” I would be lying if I said I hadn’t considered packing my bags multiple times since checking-in.
 

The lobby is exquisite. Dark mahogany paneling, crystal chandelier and what I assume is the original cage elevator, equipped with a little old man who learns each patron by name. I checked-in after a late flight at a deserted front desk. No upgrade, just get me to a room. Yes, key for one. Yes, I’m sure no one else will be joining me, but thanks for the confidence in my game. Then, she dropped this doozy on me.

“Oh. 3001. Your room is the only one that isn’t where it is supposed to be.”

Excuse me? Hey, lady, quit speaking in tongues and riddles. I don’t know what you are saying, Rumpelstiltskin.

After exiting said caged elevator, to what I considered a really creepy laugh by the attendant when he found out I was staying alone, I turned to the right to go find my door amidst all of the others. I half expected to see a kid on a trike and some twins running around. This hall is straight out of The Shining. In theory, my door would be with all of the others….but theories are shot in a horror movie. My door was to the left. All.by.itself.

When I opened the door, it hit me. I really am going to die tonight. This is one of those moments, that looking back, when a ghost is staring down your face that you think ‘Yup, should’ve seen that coming.” I set my stuff down and turned on every light in the house. Behind each of the four, count them four, creepy closet doors stood a surplus of pillows, robes and dead bodies. I flipped on each solitary light bulb and sat cross legged on my bed, which is where I still sit, to this moment.

About five minutes ago, I decided to ignore the fact that my bathroom door keeps closing on its own. That’s normal, right? Obvi it isn’t the product of some estranged former lover who killed herself in a fit of passion and misery….or is it.

This is going to be one of those sleep with your Bible and crucifix kind of nights. I racked my brain trying to come up with ways to stay safe. Bible. Check. Reciting prayers. Check and check. Garlic. Check. Salt. Check. A Colt 45. Welp….here’s wishing. (cue: Afroman)

I can’t remember a time when my fear of the dark wasn’t as issue.  My tiny-self devised multiple safe-guards against the terrors of the night. I would run (read: sprint) from my room to the safety of the lighted living room after turning off the lights. An army of stuffed friends stood guard on my bed, though after hearing rumors from my older sister that they would come to life and kill me if I made them mad, their presence soon cast an ominous shadow on my 1^st grade brow. The ritual of creating an equal opportunity environment so one didn’t get upset and start the mutiny, Lord of the Flies style, was daunting to me, though humorous to my parents who never understood the underlying cause of my benevolence.

The day my dad brought home a television for my room, I’m pretty sure the heavens parted ways and the angels sang. “Let there be light!” says I throwing my tiny fist skyward in defiance, and with that light, the ability to sleep through the night. Take that, ghosties! (okay, don’t judge me…I was 9 and convinced that ghosts couldn’t come around if there were lights. If you’ve ever seen that toothfairy movie, you know what I’m talking about.)

Right now all I want is my dad…or maybe that Colt 45. And it would be really nice if that small pale figure would stop staring at me through the window. I’m just kidding….kinda.

So long, World, its been real.

More Cheese, Please

The grocery store imparts a wealth of knowledge on me at every hair-raising turn of the baby cart. On my 5^th stroll past the bacon (the unfortunate by product of not making a list), I finally bit the bullet and put my 3^rd cheese variety into the basket that was looking pretty sad at this point. Four types of bread, three types of cheese, a hodgepodge of veggies and five…count them five…types of soup. 

I’m a creature of variety, not habit. Just like meeting new people, trying new things always puts pep in my step. It’s the exciting and unknown that bring the most value-add to my day. The memories that bubble most frequently to the surface are the moments unlike all the others, not the repeated cadences of my daily life. That is not to say that there is not comfort in the habitual, and I appreciate those rhythms in their own way, but nothing ignites my thoughts like a novel taste, an unheard joke or the cool breeze on an unexplored path. 

Sometimes, my need for adventure exceeds the number of hands I have to tote all of my foodie finds up the 92 stairs required to enter my apartment.

It’s November, but still the physical act of dragging that many bags has caused me to sweat profusely. It’s a reoccurring battle between me and my grocery bags. Every time, I obstinately refuse to take more than one trip up the stairs. Instead, I try to cram as many bags as I can onto each arm, clearly conserving previous energy….nevermind the squished bread and bruised bananas, victims of my stubborn nature. 

Why did I need to get 82 pounds of cheese? Were rye AND wheat really necessary? What the frick do you even DO with rhubarb?

All important questions to ask oneself during break number three on the trip to the second floor.

I just need to try it all. Cheddar and I have always had a solid relationship.  I know what I am going to get every time I take a bite and it fits quite nicely with my life. But what am I supposed to do when presented with the plethora of possibilities that live in the four walls of my local Central Market? There is only one answer: try them all.

I’m sorry, Cheddar, I’m cheating on you with the Fontina.

Unlike previous dating pools, big kid life tends to treat dating like my grocery shopping. It isn’t even unheard of to have multiple metaphorical cheeses in one’s fridge. Try them out in several recipes until you find one that makes the perfect salad topper, melts well on a pizza and can even be paired with Gypsy Wine (when I find it that is…) during a Friday night movie marathon.

Due to the sheer number of ways to communicate in today’s world, it would be naïve to think that people are trying out one “cheese” at a time. I have been guilty of vetting multiple possibilities at the same time with the typical get-to-know-you questions. (Calm down. It’s not like I group text it out, or BCC them all on the same email. I have tact, you know.)

What with texting, facebooking, gchat, email, skype, twitter and the myriad of other communication tools, constant communication has become a part of our everyday lives. I freak out now if I don’t hear back from someone in 5 minutes. C’mon, I know your phone is blowing up. If you didn’t get my text, then the push notification from my wall post and @mention had to have caught your attention. No? Maybe I should send you an instagram….and a Face Time request…or maybe leave you another voicemail. If that doesn’t work, there is always the option of posting up in the tree outside of your window…

Particularly zealous singles run into the problem of remembering which cheese is which. Was the Gouda on Friday night…or did I say Thursday? The Asiago is intelligent, but the Brie is really really fun. But then there’s always the Pepper Jack, he’s dreamy.

Tirade aside, I think it is fine to test drives your cheeses, but keep your feet on the ground. If you aren’t careful, you may find yourself with more cheese than you can carry.

Health Kick

I think I just found my own personal crack cocaine. Now, I’ve never been one for supplements…or even vitamins, unless those vitamins are found in cheese and/or cereal then I’m probably not getting a whole lot of it, but my friend convinced me that these supplements would really help my workout and were great for your productivity.

He didn’t tell me that I would run twice as much, clean my entire apartment, wash my windows, go for a late night grocery run, cook dinner….and plan a pumpkin-themed dinner party…..all in like 2 minutes flat. I’m like a tiny tornado of efficiency wreaking positivity and encouragement on all who come within my fury. 

I took this little amino acid-laden bundle of joy 10 minutes before my usual 3 mile jog. Three miles in, I was literally dancing down the river jamming to Needtobreathe’s new album (because it is sick). I threw up a high-five to a little blue haired speed walker, and chunked the deuce at the River Walk dude….and then I’m pretty sure I did some Sarah Palin-esque finger guns towards an innocent bike gang rolling down the street. “No, officer, I am not drunk, but I did have these FLIPPIN’ SWEET pills right before my run and now I’m FREAKING STOKED to be getting my jog on.”

Jumped in my car to head home and decided that smoothies in the morning were a solid deal, so off I jaunted to Central Market to get my health on. Frozen rhubarbs? I know you make a delightful pie, so of course I will throw you in my blender in the morning. Add some strawberries and a banana and that really weird fiber supplement and boom! A super start to my morning.

Clearly I am on some sort of health kick. I decided to run Tough Mudder in January (if my posts slow down around then…no worries, I just got electrocuted and/or puked up my lungs). My mate (a little phrase I picked up from the Emerald Isle) convinced me not only to take the little magical pills of energy, but also to do some sort of fiber cleanse. Don’t worry, readers, my mom said I’m not allowed to write about my fiber experience. I told her it really couldn’t be any more revealing than my lady doctor visit. She didn’t appreciate my logic. Mom, it’s the age of technology, I can’t help that I’m so trendy. The people need to know what fiber can do to one’s small intestines. It’s like the Discovery Channel, but IN MY BODY. 

Suffice it to say that this fiber drink is like mucus, mixed with baby food and apple sauce. It says mix well and quickly drink because it thickens with time. It didn’t say that it would never fully dissolve and that little pieces of tree trunk would be floating amongst some flax seed. So instead, I got to drink some apple sauce dump. The box says it does an ‘intestinal scrub’…which can’t be comfortable. In college I worked in a meat lab and had to clean out the pork slurry from the test tubes. Didn’t know you could make pork slurry? Yup. Grind it, freeze it with liquid nitrogen, dehydrate it, then blend that trash up in a commercial grade blender with some water. Yum. Anyway, ‘intestinal scrub’ sounds eerily similar to the test tube brush I had to use way back when….and it sounds awful. 

It’s hard to be healthy. 

Whether it is mental or the system is really working, I really do feel great. I am full of energy, happy and my tummy is full of delicious food. No dieting, only good ol’ American exercise and some crack. How much more American could it get?