How "Santa" Saved me from my "Line of Weird"

Now, I don’t know if all of you know, but I am a nurse. I loved it and was proud to be a nurse. Eventually I had some grumbling, not ‘optimistic/nice person’ issues when I worked as a nurse in New Zealand but that is a story for another time. What I would like to discuss here is one of the hazards of being a nurse.

See, to become a nurse you have to learn stuff about the human body. All about how it is supposed to work and all about the horrors of when your body goes rogue and unfortunately, even when you take a break from being a nurse, that stays with you. You end up raising a slightly hypochondriacally-leaning daughter who always smells faintly of Purell. Also, you tend to over-react when a family member is sick demanding they go to the hospital immediately, without caring that you have just made them freak out that they are going to die. Furthermore, when something goes wrong in your own body, you are pretty sure it is cancer. Not that you are morbid or anything; you just spent four years in school hearing horror stories of people who were stupid and could have been saved but ignored symptoms and left it too late and now they are dead.

Fast forward a few years and I find a lump in my breast. Now to be honest, “lump” is not really the right word, more like a “line of weird”. Plus, I also have a weird stabbing pain there, so that is another box ticked. (Picture me sticking my tongue out at you and saying, “so there!” Because I am sure before I explained this you were rolling your eyes at my paranoia.)

After umming and ahhing with Al we both think I am fine. But we are leaving to a country where, if you are dying, it will cost lots of money and because I refuse to die of stupidity I decide to go to the doctor. My usual doctor doesn’t have any appointments till next week (after we leave for the expensive dying country) so I must see the drop-in doctor. After waiting 45 minutes (well, it didn’t feel that long because I kept ducking into the bathroom to make sure the “line of weird” is still there. It is, but it seems to be shrinking. This is not surprising because you find often when you are a hypochondriac just going into the doctor’s office cures you.) I consider escaping but I have already paid to see the doctor. I am standing in the corner because I have had to take over daily operations of my immune system and it is probably more dangerous for me to stand in the cesspool that is the local doctor’s office than for me to just deal with my “line of weird”. I try to act nonchalant because it looks a bit strange to see a woman standing in a room full of empty chairs, reading her Kindle. The other patients are trying to be polite but keep looking me up and down wondering if there is something wrong with me or if they should be keeping an escape route handy or if I know something they don’t know, like if you stand you get called in sooner.

A more fit, redheaded version of Santa (really this is an exaggeration as the only similarities are that he has a beard and is jolly) comes around the corner and finally calls my name. I follow along behind, head hung low in embarrassment because I know cancer doesn’t grow overnight as my line of weirdness has and I know that he will tell me that as soon as I sit in his office. But, because I am a nurse, I have also been drilled with horror stories of all those strange cases, those “exceptions to the rule” and I am now convinced that I have a new form of cancer that grows overnight. As we enter his office I find that he is not a doctor but a PA who is over from the States. I also find that I am pretty sure he is gay. This puts me instantly at ease. Now don’t judge me; it was a momentary lapse. I know I should not discriminate against heterosexual doctors who can be just as professional as the homosexual PA (or can they?) And people should not be labeled; they should just be people. But I like him better than most of the heterosexual doctors and not just because he might be gay but because he is REALLY nice and calm. And again, he may not be gay but he puts me at ease and, gay or not, I am happy now for him to touch my breasts.  He asks me what is going on and I explain. He does the exam and crinkles up his endearing face and says “but you have it on this side too…”, feeling both sides together. I say “No I don’t!” (And to be fair to me it was a smaller “line of weird” on the left than the right.) Then he says “I think that is a rib.”

At this I respond professionally, choosing my words carefully to ensure understanding: “Shut up! Do not tell me I went to the doctor because I have ribs!”  He was sooo nice and proceeded to explain that as I have recently started running again (because I have finally managed to make my immune system bow to the almighty drug) he thinks I have inflammation in the cartilage between my ribs, causing the slight swelling and pain. Now he even drew me a picture (because clearly I was not a healthcare professional who had spent years studying the human body, because what kind of healthcare professional needs to be told that she has a functioning body part?) and sent me on my way.

So, just in case anyone is wondering, I have had confirmation from another healthcare professional that I do in fact have ribs.

Rule number 7 – PART 2: How to assist those around you to continue being an optimist/nice person even if you are not: At the Movies.

I realize I have mentioned this before but after a recent experience at the movies I feel it needs to be explored in much greater depth. I found myself in a movie theater with carefully chosen friends who don't talk but sitting next to a row of 7 teenage boys. They apparently thought they were at a public film forum. Otherwise, I am not sure how it is possible to have THAT much to say during a film. In order to remain an optimist/nice person, I tried to imagine all of the reasons someone would be compelled to speak through an entire movie. I thought maybe the constant stream of words was because someone did not speak English and had brought their own personal interpreter. But then I picked up enough words to realized they were all English speaking (clearly I did not try very hard as this was my only idea but to be fair, I was trying to actually watch a film at the time). Next, I tried a few sighs and mean glaring (which is surprisingly ineffective in a dark movie theater); nothing worked and the words continued to flow unimpeded from the teenage mouths.
Then, just to make sure I reached another level of insanity, they decided to text their other friends (the ones not at the movies) to tell them what a great time they were having. I can't imagine they were having a good time because I am pretty sure to this day they will have no idea what actually happened during this particular film.
After spending WAY too much time pondering the reason behind talking in theaters and just how close I had come to standing up, running to the front and screaming "SHUT UP!"  Thus putting my days of being an optimist/nice person behind me, I decided intervention was necessary. Therefore, I have developed a fool proof series of questions to help anyone who may still be confused about the subject. I am also available for seminars given for the very discounted rate of the cost of a movie ticket.  Or,  you could just casually post this, perhaps on Facebook, (This is particularly effective if you have a friend who you love but just can’t help themselves.) and be like "HA! isn't this funny? LOL!" (even if you don't think it is funny, saying it is funny might get them to read it). Then hopefully you will have a reformed talker that you are  free to take to the cinema anytime you want.

So, in summation, there are very few reasons to speak in a movie. (None that I can think of but there could be something. Like maybe, "Close your eyes! If you watch this scene you will never sleep again and forever be an angry bitter cynic who believes everyone will eventually just kill each other." But this would be a one time emergency situation because I am unlikely to have gone to see a film requiring this sort of intervention.) The trip to the movies is supposed to be an all encompassing absorbing experience. To be explored in much depth AFTER the credits roll, when you are free to explore its profound meaning, criticize its idiot director, writer or actor, or just say "That was amazing!" over and over. Feel free to quote line after line or explain the six degrees of separation between you and Steven Spielberg. The floor is yours! However, if you want to talk to me in a movie theater, while the movie is rolling, your opinion is immediately invalid because you can't possibly have acquired all of the information needed to have formed an opinion worth me missing any part of the movie. Plus, I would like to continue being a nice person and sitting there mulling over your words tends to make me think not nice thoughts while I miss even more of the film I paid to see. For instance how ridiculous your opinion is and how you may or may not have brain cells.

I will say that the rented movie has slightly more lax rules. This is because I either did not feel the movie would be worth a full price ticket, or I have already seen it in the theater. Also, the rented movie provides ample opportunity for witty banter which I am fully in favor of especially for the absolutely ridiculous film that should be mocked mercilessly. But remember, NOT in the theater! It is dark for a reason people!!

Rule number 7  -  How to assist those around you to continue being an optimist/nice person even if you are not. PART ONE.

Now I may be breaking one of my rules here slightly but if you recall in the little sidebar thingy to the right -> I reserved the right to be bossy. SO here it goes …

When making any decision, please take just a few minutes of your overall decision making time to determine just how big your contribution will be to someone's overall level of annoyance or possible insanity.

Questions you could ask yourself:

 

 

Because here is how it affects me when I am writing. It often ends up looking like this:

I am not sure how I got here. I have just experienced the terrible feeling  that I have not been awake for the last Gotta git dat   twenty minutes of the drive. git dat   I chastise myself, turn the music up a little louder and roll the window down. 

Gotta git dat boom boom pow

The bitter cold annoys me sufficiently to wake me up. As  I am following a long bend, I suddenly have to hit the brakes, hard. A small blue hatchback has boom boom pow  stopped just ahead, not quite off the road, lights on and its door is open.  I pull up behind it,

You’re the reason all those cute girls havin babies

trying inconspicuously to press down the lock on my door. cute girls havin babies Now what? Clearly this is not a good situation for a woman by herself but what if someone needs help? Cause baby you o o o o o o o make me feel alright. Cause baby you o o o o o o make me feeeeel alright. I reach for my cell phone; no signal, of course.  I roll down the window, just slightly, to see if  you o o o o o o make me feeeeel alright I can hear anyone. Nothing, just an owl in the distance. Great! Why does there have to be an owl?  I decide it is time to act. As I exit the safety of my vehicle.

Bubble yum bum bad um bam bad um. Bubble yum bum ba dum bum be dum.

“Hello?” I say, too softly for Bubble yum bum anyone to hear. “Hello!?” I try, a little louder. I peer into the darkness but the lights  Bubble yum from both cars have made it impossible to see.  I start edging down the embankment when I hear another car pull up. I peer back over the road’s edge and see a man,  Bubble yum bum ba dum bum be dum about my age, getting out of his truck as cautiously as I did. His face mirrors my fear and I cover my mouth to avoid giggling. yum bum  Someone this scared can’t be a threat. I raise myself up and give him a wave – he jumps so far he  Ummm ummm Bubble yum bum ba dum bum be dum. Oh  never mind.

If you have decided that you don't care how your music choice is affecting everyone around you, when I pull back the curtain angrily, could you at least give me the satisfaction of a well placed glare? I mean, I stand there for like ten minutes glaring at you. So, could you at least look up and pretend to be afraid of me?
Thanks

 

Lessons learned this Thanksgiving

Now before you keep reading, for the sake of my ego, I must state for the record I can cook and in the past have prepared a successful Thanksgiving dinner. However, this year provided ample opportunity to learn some things:

1.       When you learn online how to grill a turkey and it turns out perfectly the first time, this is a fluke.  

On reflection, the problem was twofold. One, an over inflated ego at last year’s triumphant grilled turkey and thus ignoring the warnings sprinkled throughout the recipe. For instance, “take care on a windy day as this will change grilling times” and “Make sure you have enough gas in the bottle. You don’t want to run out half way through.”  And two, having a helpful husband. At first glance this may not seem like a problem but when it is time for him to go check on the turkey and I keep yelling “Wait! Help I am stuck!” it definitely becomes a problem. After one of these delayed checking episodes, he comes racing back inside screaming “It happened!!” He sprints through the house gathering shoes and keys “What happened!?” I yell as he runs out the front door “The grill is cold! We ran out of gas!” he says from the driveway and then speeds off down the street to get more gas. We console ourselves that it couldn’t have been too long but we add some extra time on the end and adjust our side-dish cooking times accordingly. My guests arrive just late enough that I look organized and have managed to not answer the door naked. At around 5 I send Alan out for the update on the turkey. He is gone so long I forget where he is and ask a guest who says he is outside messing with the grill. I go about my cooking, Al returns, stands next to me and says quietly “Well, the fish is done!” I gape at him. Apparently, our turkey, after three hours of cooking, is the appropriate temperature for grilled fish. He takes me outside and points accusingly at the grill and asks “Did you know there was a huge gaping hole at the back of the Grill?” I shake my head as the wind swirls around us. We realize, the grill temperature has not been 375 to 400 as the grill thermometer was reading but more like 200.

2.      Stop trying to make homemade bread to serve. Ever.

I learned this lesson after a disastrous attempt by my sister Michelle and I to replicate my Aunt Patsy’s addictive cinnamon and potato rolls in my closet kitchen  (Seriously there is a drug in them or something; you can’t stop eating them even though you are consuming copious amounts of the other amazing food she has also made.) They were the size of footballs and softballs respectively. She and I swore never again to attempt them. However since this was over 12 years ago, and my kitchen and cooking skills have both improved, I decide to try again.  Not Aunt Patsy’s rolls (I am not that stupid) but biscuits, because my Kiwi guests have not had them. The first batch was amazing; I was so proud. I ate a whole one (so yummy) and I decided everyone would want at least two.  So I made another batch. When we finally sit down to our dinner at eight thirty, I of course, served the biscuits. I took mine last and took a bite, instantly spitting out it. It tasted like armpit. I was too late to save my guests; some had already gagged theirs down (or hopefully thrown it outside when I wasn’t looking.) Later, as I was just drifting off to sleep I was pondering what went so wrong with the damn biscuits when my eyes popped open. For the second batch I had found the exact right amount of butter in my fridge without having to cut into another block. I was pretty happy about this but I failed to notice that it had been in my fridge so long it had come back to life as a cow. At least the mystery was solved. My biscuits tasted like you had licked the inside of my fridge because the butter which had grown legs and a mouth actually had licked the inside of the fridge.

3.      Sometimes ovens get tired too.

When you are dead on your feet after cooking all day the day before Thanksgiving you might think “I will just make the brownies. So I have less to do tomorrow.” You really should go to bed because your oven apparently needs a rest too. You will put the brownies in for the allotted time, at the allotted temperature, and check they are done with a tooth pick. Then when you go to serve them the next day at nearly midnight because the turkey took 7 hours to cook instead of three ,your guests will say “NO! I love eating brownie batter! Yum!” This is because they are hungry and have already thrown your biscuits out onto the lawn.

4.      If you stick your hand in the oven you will get a burned finger. If you do it again you will burn your other finger. If you do it again you will burn your arm.

5.      Just because putting veggies in your gravy is yummy doesn’t mean you should put more veggies in your gravy. (Because you forgot to buy carrots so your helpful husband runs to the store and buys 6 pounds because you were freaking out) your gravy will be carrot soup instead.

6.       When you invoke the tradition of sharing what you are thankful for, be prepared for your child to embarrass you.

One of my guests was sharing how he was grateful to live in a country that gives him a student allowance to live on. Very valid gratefulness statement. Then my daughter chimes in “Well that’s not going to last forever, so don’t get used to it!” Now, I am trying to give her a stern 'you are being rude' face. However, I can’t stop laughing at the witty political humor with great comedic timing. So I have learned my lesson but she certainly hasn’t. Because explaining to your child she is being rude, while laughing, doesn’t really work.

7.      When you decide to keep the family tradition of playing a card game after Thanksgiving Dinner perhaps you should rethink teaching your friends (the ones who think you are nice) Pounce.

This may not occur to you right away but when you are standing screaming at your guest to “take your two of hearts off the damn pile!” it will occur to you. This game is best played in the safety of your family who have to love you even when you scream during Pounce. Next time, when the option is between watching a movie or playing Pounce, take the movie option.

So this Thanksgiving I am thankful for friends who drive 40 minutes to my house and then wait four hours to eat dinner. After you have finally fed them they will learn a new game and then let you scream at them. I am thankful for new medication that allows me to make a Thanksgiving dinner and recover in less than 48 hours. I am thankful for a husband who rescues me when I am stuck even though the turkey will suffer. I am thankful for an incredibly smart and funny daughter who is already way cooler than I am. I am thankful for my Mom and Dad who are still fun to be with and teaching me things to this day. I am thankful for my beautiful sisters who never stop encouraging me and let me say ANYTHING (and you two know the rest). I am thankful for friends who could not come to Thanksgiving but who in just one afternoon can fill my love tank to overflowing (you know who you are). Extended families that are so much fun I can’t wait to spend Christmas with them! And much more but this is a blog people and let’s be honest, most of you stopped reading after number one. Love you guys!

PART THREE - Emergency Preparedness Plan

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I think if I was doing this blog thing right, I should be posting something about being grateful today. Which I am… very! But I can’t in good conscious just skip the emergency part of this VERY important series! So, I will just be grateful some other day (and today but just not publicly).

I have heard people say we should have tighter communities and more friendliness. And, as a theory this is good advice but it is also rather presumptive about the type of people we are to be “tighter” with. And I think if you have read parts one and two, you should now be firmly on my side.

So I say, avoid your neighbors. If you need an egg, go to the supermarket. Out of flour? Break out the old millstone. But now for the key; what do you do if you are in an emergency situation and you have sequestered yourself according to my rules? Here is what I suggest:

1.      Plan your escape route in advance. Always sleep with your keys and cell phone in your hand. That way if there is a fire or someone breaks into your house you can escape out the window and drive to your non-racist friend or family member’s house. And as a bonus, because you have your phone, call for help (not while driving of course because I would never recommend driving while talking on a cell phone).

2.       If you have children make sure your escape route takes you past their bed so you can scoop them up on the way. Your spouse is definitely optional because they have probably mocked you for your preparedness plan or complained that you sleep with your keys and cell phone in your hand. So you can reserve the right to grab your child and, as a warning to your spouse, shout, “I told you so!” as you get in to the car. (Also, they may or may not have left you alone at a certain racist neighborhood meet and greet in order watch a Rugby game.) Feel free to wait in the locked car (this could be the appropriate time to call for help) while they gather themselves and probably get dressed, look for their keys and cell phone, and wander around the halls for a while because they did not practice the escape route.

3.      Choose your sleeping attire with care. Wear some. And even better, right before you go to bed, look at yourself in the mirror and try to picture yourself giving a comment to the local news crew. (Because you have slept with your cell phone and keys and have survived the emergency of course, but may be unable to change before the 6 o’clock news. They will want to talk to you because of your amazing swift escape and rescue of your child. Try and avoid questions about your naked spouse who may or may not be running through the streets because of the insanity that set in when he realized how wrong he was and how smart you really were all along.)

 If, when you are looking in the mirror, you see a suspicious amount of skin, secret body parts, or an unreasonably large picture of Mickey Mouse you should reassess your sleeping attire. (Something small say, the size of a pocket is ok but if it looks like Mickey Mouse is escaping from your bowels you have chosen poorly.) I for one like to sleep in things that look like I am going for a run, which also helps with including a work out into your daily routine. Or if you still run out of time for a work out, getting in and out of a work out bra, I’ve found, burns like 100 calories so keep that in mind.

4.      You might be tempted to think that running to the CIA neighbor’s house (from part one) could work. DON’T FALL FOR IT! Sure he might be CIA but then he could be... you know… C.I.A. and he has had all his humanity erased, (in some sort of secret government conspiracy that was marketed to the head of the CIA as a “safe procedure” but you know… as always with mind melting, things went wrong…) so he can assassinate anyone including me in my Y2K t-shirt. (I personally feel that the Y2K shirt shows significantly more class than a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and I have the blog so there!)

 

So stay safe out there!  For the record I am all for loving your neighbor!  Just keep in mind your particular strengths and recognize when the job may need to be outsourced... Like to family or to someone who is able to turn racists into thinking people. If you can't outsource the job do your best...  

 And have a  Happy Thanksgiving!!! ( and because I am pretty sure I know all my readers personally... I LOVE YOU and miss you and wish we could be together today!!!)

 

 

 

 

 

PART TWO - Neighbors in Open Spaces

We have made the transition to the traditional neighborhood. You know, yards and fences and people peering in your windows... Over the years, we have become quite savvy at avoiding neighbors. It really is simple.

1.      Before exiting your house, make sure your neighbors are not outside or if they are outside, make sure they are involved in an activity.

2.      Make sure to have the occasional conversation about the beauty of their garden or even better how the weather may or may not have affected the garden. This is crucial. The neighborly dialogue must be carefully planned and thought out.  It should be kept short and simple. Too much confidence in your ability to small talk off the top of your head can be disastrous. You need to have these conversations with just the right amount of frequency. Too many and you find out way too much information (or give too much information as is often the case with me). Too few and you will appear rude, reclusive or they will form their own opinion about who you are and what you do. Now, this can be very fun, endless hours of amusement from the rumors started about you. A word of caution here though, if your husband is the famous small town pharmacist this can be risky so enjoy briefly and then set the record straight.

3.      When attempting the above conversation, you should always have an exit strategy. Keep your feet at a 45 degree angle and ready to run at the first sign of trouble. Keep the key to your house ready, not just dangling. Those crucial seconds of searching through your 50 keys could mean the difference between a clean escape and being trapped in conversation at your own front door. There is no polite escape from this. If you are to remain an optimist /nice person I am afraid you must wait until they talk themselves out. Or live with a lie you are forced to come up with. If you go this route try and avoid pretending you have gone crazy. While this is VERY fun, it is hard to keep up over the years and guilt will inevitably set in.

If you ignore my steps here you could be caught in a whirlwind of drama. For example, recently we were invited to a neighborhood meet and greet. I don’t think they wanted to invite us as we are renters. (You should read the word ‘renters’ with a growl or at least clench your teeth a little.) Our first mistake was sending Alan to the door. Alan is not good at coming up with an appropriate answer for things like this such as “Lemme just ask Mel and see if she has anything on.” Thus, allowing us to come up with a reasonable excuse. Instead he blurted out “But… but… that’s when the All Blacks are playing!” (New Zealand rugby team for my American readers.) Thus, confirming immediately that we had no real plans. She told him he should record it and then had to suffer the shock at the absolute desolate state of a house without a digital recording device. Apparently, we are not keeping up with the Joneses or what ever their name is. She then firmly let Alan know he had offended her (mainly nonverbally but not entirely). So Alan trudged to the living room, shoulders slumped in defeat to let me know we were going. Our second mistake was assuming when she said it was from three thirty to four, we would be able to retreat to our solitude after just a half an hour of fake smiles and conversations about gardening. So we did not work very hard to come up with an acceptable excuse. We were wrong. Apparently it BEGAN between three thirty and four and went till whenever. You see we made the critical error of assuming that most of our neighbors have more exciting things to do on a Sunday afternoon.  

So we went and learned some very important information.  For instance, we now know how terrible all other races are and, in particular, people from Papua New Guinea. Apparently, we should all be vigilant because there are still head hunters there. I assume they did not mean that I should avoid these particular Papua New Guineans because they were trying to recruit me for a very high paying job. Alan and I decided to keep to ourselves that we had actually been to Papua New Guinea and met very nice people who did not cut off our heads, steal from us or offer us high paying jobs.

We ignored my carefully planned dealing-with-neighbors rules. Now I know things I don’t want to know about people who live so close to me. People who I am now sure are all rip-roaring racists. This leaves quite the conundrum. At the time I would have liked to say something but in these situations I find I am sitting there saying ‘Did he just say that? Na, he couldn’t have because that would be ridiculous. No one actually thinks about other races like that anymore. It must have been his accent. He must have said “You know, learning from other cultures always enriches us.” Yes, I am sure that is what he said.’ And ‘I am sure he did not just use the term “blacky” to describe someone.’ Then when I get home I get confirmation from Alan that I am completely wrong and yes all of our neighbors are two sheets short of a cross burning.

This leaves the next conundrum: should I break all rules and go and ring the door bell and peacefully explain that they are racist, homophobic and sexist and say STOP IT! Or should I go with a quick slap to the face. This definitely goes against my firm non-violence policy but does my non-hate policy outweigh my no conflict rule? Maybe if I thought it would make any kind of difference I would say something. But the problem with people like this is they have stopped learning and growing. Hate seeps in slowly, hardening hearts until they have become like a cement statue and no amount of shouting or violence can make it grow. It is stuck where it is. They have firmly planted their feet and are stuck where they stand. Maybe you can do some damage and knock it down but it will only ever lay in pieces unable to put itself together again and then the pieces themselves can be used as weapons by others intent on living in hate. 
Even though it doesn’t usually do any good to confront the narrow, hate filled minds, I fully encourage you to have at the ready stories or anecdotes to frighten them with. For instance, I dream of having a conversation by their mailbox (ready to run obviously) when I casually drop in that once I fell in love with a beautiful woman from Papua New Guinea. This goes firmly against my no lying policy but it is still fun to imagine.

Although, despite it all there was one valuable thing I learned. They did manage to reprimand me for my daughter’s frequent lateness for school which apparently they have been keeping track of on a daily basis. Without this afternoon spent sweating in the sun with racists I would never have known how much I was failing as a mother.

So in conclusion of parts one and two, what have we learned? You can be pretty sure that if your neighbors are not trying to kill you they are probably contemplating killing someone else. SO STICK TO THE RULES PEOPLE!

PART ONE - Neighbors in confined spaces

Today I will be starting a three part series on neighbors. The first two parts clearly explain why we should avoid all neighborhood interactions beyond the occasional wave. I know this seems to go against my optimist/nice person stance but if you hang in there with me I think you will see the logic eventually. The most important segment is part three which will deal with the vital question "What do you do in an emergency and you have no friends as neighbors?" So if you miss the first two, or are just bored with the first two and stop checking my blog, don't miss this one. It just might save your life.

The main problem is that once you get to know your neighbors there is no escaping them. And dealing with neighbors on a regular basis, will lead to an absolute dissolving of the system of rules that I have so painstakingly been laying out for you in this blog.

I will begin by addressing the problem of apartment living and the complication of owning the said apartment. Living in this particular indoor neighborhood provided a plethora of exciting things! For instance, notes slipped under our door, from the old lady who lived downstairs, written while drunk.  This provided us with endless laughter. Although if I am being honest, I was often afraid that the notes, written sometimes in red sharpie or lipstick, we couldn’t tell which, could be a sign we were about to be murdered. We would have a good laugh and then our laughter would slowly fade to a sigh. Then we’d  stand silently, re reading the note, contemplating our lives. And if this was to be our last night on earth, had we really lived it to the fullest? She would alternate between leaving the threatening notes and begging Alan to search her apartment for an intruder who she was sure had made it inside. We were willing to put up with this treatment because we looked trendy in our miniscule downtown apartment. (I say "apartment" but when we tried to sell the albatross we called it a "condo" this did not help it's status in anyway. And I say  “looked” because we were in no way cool or trendy.) Also, we had endless entertainment from the drunk people who took shelter in the alley we shared with a large office building. What we weren’t prepared for was the famous HOA meeting.

The thing took almost two hours and the vote being put to us was whether or not to repaint the front door of the building which was looking a bit shabby. A couple of people voted no, a couple yes and then this guy said he would be “abstaining from voting” and he would not tell us why. I just sat there my mind racing for a list of serious reasons that would force a guy, who seems relatively normal, to abstain from voting about the front door. Had he murdered someone and written a confession on the door and then painted over it? And then when we stripped it, we would see it? Perhaps he had a fear of doors? Or maybe he was a covert operative for the CIA and his signal to his handler was repainting the front door. When we repainted it we would trigger a rescue with tact teams and guns, his cover blown and National Security at risk.  But then wouldn’t he have just voted no? Maybe he thought the beat up door looked old fashioned but was embarrassed that he liked old fashioned things. But again wouldn’t he have just voted no? There is no space in my brain that helps me account for this strange occurrence. I had a very difficult time not laughing out loud which would have turned the VERY serious HOA meeting into a chaotic firefight of words and accusations  about heavy footsteps and the EQ of the bass. (See? Clearly violating rule one.)

We stopped going to HOA meetings after this, deciding that we could not care enough about the building to abstain from voting about any of it. So we thought we should leave it to people who act like deciding to paint the front door is akin to solving world hunger. Plus no one ever brought food. I mean if you are going to discuss the front door for two hours someone should have made cookies. Maybe they were trying to solve world hunger! And the no food or drink thing was a statement of solidarity! And the painting of the front door was a difficult decision because of the symbolism… You know like… Our old door stands as a reminder of those in need. Wow! I really did not give these people enough credit. Although, it still doesn’t explain the death threats written in lipstick. No, I think my point still stands, avoid your neighbors even if you share a building with them.

Sue and Samuel and What They Thought was Cake

After a recent argument with a friend of mine about who invented fondant and subsequently fruit cake, I realized it doesn’t really matter. The real travesty is that we are still eating it. My first introduction to the stuff was at my wedding in New Zealand. I was standing talking to a guest I didn’t know and someone handed me a piece of what I thought was cake. Being a fan of cake, I was excited to taste it. I have never been so wrong. I took the first bite and spit it out convinced it was an attempt to kill me. (Because my in-laws were not too happy about the marriage and while I was pretty sure they wouldn't kill me, if you were going to kill the bride wouldn't the best way be to poison her cake?) I excused myself from the stranger, (who was now convinced that he was right all along. I really was a rude American who spits out food and he could no longer look at me) and made my way across the room to one of my few friends attending my wedding. She was about to take a fatal bite of her own so I nearly knocked it out of her hands. When she asked me what was wrong. I explained that I had had a bite but there was something wrong because it tasted like it had been marinating in a bag with old socks, for at least a year. The Kiwi laughed “haha!” and said “No! It’s just fruit cake”. And then proceeded to eat it as I looked on in horror.

So from then on I knew, and unfortunately could never unlearn, that people make it on purpose. They went purposefully to the kitchen measured out flour and smelly socks stood in the hot kitchen, with the oven on, dripping sweat into the batter (which would also explain the slight saltiness). In a flash of heat induced insanity they saw their rotting grapes on the counter and thought “Oh yes! These are just what this cake needs!” and threw them in the mixture. Then they rolled out a sheet of what I can only assume is plastic, added a single granule of sugar and plopped it on top of the cake. Then they left. I don’t know they went on vacation or something. Perhaps they went on a long sea voyage because back then travel took a very long time. When they returned six months later they dropped their luggage and went to make themselves a cup of tea. (Because that is what they did after long journeys. Don’t argue with me on this. I have it on good authority. My mom’s friend wrote a book and everything.) Anyway, as they set their kettle on the wood fire stove to boil, they noticed a lump under a tea towel. The baker (let’s call her Sue) has a sinking feeling in her chest as she slowly lifts the tea towel to reveal her cake. Sue exclaims “Oh no! I forgot about the cake!” (imagine her delicate gloved hand flying to her mouth in despair) a discussion must have ensued with the result being Samuel (her husband who has been in love with her since she was 17 but waited a respectable three years before proposing marriage. He is still just as smitten with her. He just loves the way her eyes light up when she laughs.) Anyway, he sees how his beloved is distraught and, in an effort to make every aspect of her life happy, tastes the cake. He must have smiled around the bite and said “No honey! It’s delicious!”  She then peeked out from behind her hands and he (even though he still hadn’t swallowed it) smiled convincingly until those beautiful eyes believed him and then he hugged her.

So all I can conclude is that fruit cake with fondant on top is really a testament to true love. At some point in history Sue, a rare beauty, made a horrible mistake in the kitchen and Samuel, who loved her more than life itself, did not have the heart to tell her it tasted like cardboard that had been sitting in the dump. I guess that is why it endures as an example of how marriage really can work. So generation after generation couples who desire eternal marriage bliss continue to make and eat the horrid mixture and stay married. And then their children make it because it is tradition and even if something tastes terrible, if it reminds you of home, you make it and eat it.

If this is not the reason then there really is no excuse and fruit cake with fondant should be banned or used as a cheap eco-friendly replacement for brick walls, or coal, or crude oil or something useful.

Who pushes the upload button?

 

As I woke this morning, I found myself glaring at the new computer. The one my husband made me get, even though the old one was fine. (Yes Alan, the old computer is fine! Stop hassling me! I have the blog so they all have to listen to me. And now they will all know I was right and you were wrong.) He promised  that the new computer would be the end of error messages and broken progress bars. He and the sales guy tag teamed me, promising endless memory and showed me shiny big numbers about Ram and things I had no idea about and I was lulled into their dreamy picture of computer bliss. And yet here we are. Yesterday, I decided I would post a video on my blog, for a couple of reasons. First, because I plan to do this in the future and I need to work out how. And, second, because I thought I could make you all laugh, which is the number one goal of this blog. But it was not to be. Sadly, four hours and six different saved versions of the video later, all I have is a four-sentence paragraph explaining the video. No video. Just endless error messages after endless hours of watching progress bars.

 I have always wondered and now I am sure that these things are out to get us. Just you wait. One day a little army of ant-size people is going to come marching out of our computers and tie us down and make us watch little progress bars that make it all the way to the end and then send an error message. Then they are going to video our descent into insanity and they will post it on their blogs (because, if you are going to take over the world, you really should blog about it). And they will make us watch as all of their videos are successfully uploaded.

But I have to ask myself, why the hostility, little ant-size people army? Are we over working you? Do you fall asleep during work hours? Is that why I can’t upload my video?  But then this really isn’t fair because I was never told about the little ant- size people army that works in my computer. I was always told it was a hard drive, so it’s not my fault they're underpaid and over worked. I mean, if there are little ant-sized people, I would think they are the perfect people to be working inside my computer. Wouldn’t they feel like they have found their purpose in life? Maybe that's why it happens to me all the time.

Maybe, in my computer, there is a little ant-sized person who knows he is meant for greater things. He is sitting off by himself, writing in a journal about how small the world is and how he just has to see what’s out there. He thinks there must be more to life than pushing the upload button everyday and then coming home to watch reruns of “Fried” (a sitcom about four friends trying to make it in the competitive computer of a gamer). All his friends are content to work and get married and have kids who grow up to work and get married and have kids who grow up to work... but he just can’t take it anymore. Well, I say, go for it little ant-size man. Be free! Go and see what’s out there! Stick it to the man! Take your little ant-sized back pack and bum around Europe. Or go and visit ant colonies in the woods and see how to live off the land. The world is yours! I will go and make myself a cup of coffee so you can escape without being seen. But, if you wouldn’t mind, could you train a replacement little ant-size man to push the upload button before you go?

Optimism Backfires and John Selefried

In my everyday optimism I am generally happy and I generally believe everyone else is happy. However as I have stated before, this can backfire quite dramatically. For instance, one morning, on a particularly happy day. I needed to get to school early to refresh my mind with some required reading. I am very organized and leave a full 20 minutes early, quite the accomplishment for me! My husband is extra happy and helpful and even carries my coffee to the car. I give him a friendly wave as I pull out of the driveway and head down the street. Such a lovely day.

As I turn the corner I pass a woman with two dogs on the side of the road. Now, I am living this trying-to-be-nice-and-optimistic thing and I often find that I think others are doing the same. So when she waves at me, I give her my biggest brightest smile and enthusiastically wave right back. (Like a really big wave. Not the couple of fingers Texas wave. Like, the homecoming queen/cheerleader wave.)  I drive on and smile a little to myself at all of the happiness and love in the world.

 As I drive another ten yards I think ‘Hang on, that wave looked slightly frantic to be friendly.’

Another ten yards. ‘Hang on, she was on the ground.’

 Another ten yards ‘and those dogs were circling.’

 I screech to a halt and do a u turn. By the time I make it back the woman is complaining to a very frail old man about the ridiculous woman who waved and drove past. She does a double take as I walk up. I try and put my body between her eye line and my car hoping that she does not put two and two together.

They ask me to call 111 on my cell phone which I do; thinking it is odd that neither of them have a cell phone. I take a look at her leg It does not look good. She says, ‘I think I have broken my ankle’. The emergency operator says that it may take up to an hour. The woman wails. I try and keep her calm. Apparently, I am terrible at keeping her calm because she ignores me and pulls a cell phone out of her pocket. She proceeds to call everyone she knows to tell them the news.
Now, I am looking at my watch thinking ‘Great. Now I will be late.’ And ‘I thought she didn’t have a cell phone...’ So much for being an optimist/nice person. In the space of twenty minutes I have gone from the nice friendly neighbor to the grumbling  version of the stereotype of a New Yorker, at least my stereo type. (I have always thought of New Yorkers as some of the most kickass people in the world. Like, if there ever really was a super hero, he/she would definitely come from New York but because of this, they scare me ever so slightly. But still, I would like to be one, or at least see one for real some day. I figure, if I can get one of them to stop walking so fast, I could get their autograph and then run away and hide. This would serve several purposes; First, this New Yorker would spend the next few days wondering which famous person they looked like. And second, I would get an autograph from a random New Yorker. Which then works brilliantly because when I tell people I have John Selefried’s autograph, everyone will be so impressed. Because they will think they should know who John Selefried is and will be too afraid to ask because, clearly, I am more sophisticated and get autographs from people like John Selefried. If they press me, all I will have to say is ‘You know... John Selefried... from NEW YORK.’ And then I will do that thing with my eyes, make them real wide and nod knowingly and they will spend the rest of the party telling everyone I have John Selefried’s autograph. Then they get to look all sophisticated and cultured because they know who John Selefried is and no one else does. It is just hours of endless happiness and entertainment!)  

By-the-way I did not just leave her there. I left her in the capable hands of a neighborhood doctor and my husband and continued on my way. I spend the first half of my drive to school pondering my grumpiness and the second half pondering the implications of an hour delay of an ambulance... like death. Sometimes I hate it here.  

Sex and Evil Shirts

I have been told that the novel I am working on needs more sex… Really? Does it really?  Aren’t we all a bit over it? I have had enough of being suffused in grady sex (yes - that is a word; check my dictionary included above). I am sick of it! It is everywhere. Can't we just get on with the story please?
Now don’t get me wrong - I am all for a good kiss now and then, (I reserve the right to discuss kissing at length later but I feel it will distract from the amazing airtight argument I am having here), and we could all use a bit more love in our lives. But let’s be honest, we all know what goes on during sex. We don’t need to talk about it in any great detail do we? Do we?

I have had enough. I like sex, don’t get me wrong. But do we need to know all the ins and outs, so to speak? I mean we all know it is NEVER like it is in the movies or on TV.  It is probably because I have been doing too much catching up on Grey’s Anatomy episodes lately but, how on earth can you sleep with so many people? I mean, I realize they are all gorgeous but, seriously! We all have insecurities about our bodies; how can you just get over that, with EVERYONE. I mean, why don’t they just save time and start treating people naked. It would save so much time. They could just do surgery and then have sex right away, no passionate tearing off of clothes or anything. Which by the way is also NOT as great as it looks on TV! Your hair almost ALWAYS gets caught when you try to yank your shirt off and I tend to panic if I can’t get my shirt over my head in one fluid motion. I mean you never really know… this could be the day your shirt is actually trying to kill you… (Shirts really should not be trusted. I have been caught in more than one in my life. They are shifty and tight in all the wrong places. ) What if you are trying to be all sexy and ripping clothes off and today REALLY IS the day your shirt tries to kill you!? 

And what is all this slamming against walls? That could hurt you know, which is just distracting. How can you be like “Oh yay! Sex! Ouch, you just slammed me into a wall! Hey! Now my back hurts.” It just doesn’t work.

Not to mention all these people having sex on counter-tops and dinner tables. I mean, come on! You know you will just have to clean that later. And thinking about NOT cleaning that later, makes me throw up a little in my mouth.  And what is sexy about thinking how gross this is and how you are going to eat dinner there later. I mean, maybe it is a new diet technique. Most of these people are pretty thin, so maybe they just never eat again. I guess that could work?? But really, if you are going to have sex, you should really be thinking about sex and not about how gross it is to have your butt on the dining room table. Personally I don’t even think people should be sitting on the couch without at least underwear on, so let’s just keep the naked stuff to the bedroom and the bathroom.

So to sum up to my critics, I am NOT sexually repressed. I just think everyone should be having SAFE sex. Safe from STD’s, safe from “not ready to be pregnant”, safe from injuries, safe from germs and MOST IMPORTANTLY, safe from the ever-present threat of death by shirt. (That’s real you know! They are out to get us, wandering around with their beady, button eyes and ending up in the laundry basket when you are sure you haven’t worn it this week. Just DON’T trust them is all I am saying… especially turtle necks... you know they are the leaders of these devious gangs, always ready to strangle you while pretending to be all warm and nice... just don't trust them. Yes, you should definitely wear them, but see? That is where they have us trapped.... like a dictatorship. We need them but they might turn on us at any second. I am just sayin...)

Rule Number 6 – Never underestimate the sympathetic smile.

When attempting to be an optimistic/nice person there is one category of person that will very often catch you off your guard. A scenario sounds like this: you say, ‘How are you?' They say ‘uhgg I am so tired!’ and they look pretty upset about it. So, you say, ‘Oh no! Why?’ Then they regale you with their tale of woe of having to stay up late with friends, drinking or watching movies and giggling all night. This is a crucial moment because at this point you may be tempted to give them some friendly advice about what real suffering is. This is a mistake! Just keep your mouth shut, smile sympathetically, and add a sentiment like ‘That sucks, I am so sorry’.

You might want to argue that it is better to say nothing, as the above statement is bordering on lying (I know because I would have said such a thing before I went on my pilgrimage to Disneyland and became enlightened in all things happy and sunny and studied the lyrics to ‘It’s A Small World’ till I can sing them backwards, which incidentally makes you sound like a demon but then you have faced the fear of sounding like a demon and are no longer afraid). Anyway, you may think it is better to say nothing. But saying nothing is a very big trap. Your eyes will give you away or, worse, you will actually roll your eyes. Then you will be enmeshed in extricating yourself from breaking rule number one, and forced to come up with a horrible lie like ‘my eyes roll like that because I have an eye condition’…

So instead, you must come up with a half-lie. Now only a skilled optimist/nice person should attempt the half-lie. You need to summon within yourself every ounce of empathy and put yourself in the shoes of the immature-nothing-bad-ever-happens-to-me-so-I-have-to-complain-about-good-things-and-make-them-sound-like-bad-things person. You can do it if you really try. It comes from a place where you really do hope that all they ever have to complain about is that they had to stay out late with friends. You genuinely want that for them; only then can you muster the empathy required. Or you could say: Your silly little complaint about how tired you are, because you had to hang out with your friends, is overall irrelevant to my life. You are silly and your issues are so small I have to wear my glasses to see them.  Oh… Excuse me. I may have blacked out for a second.

Dad makes his first appearance in my blog!

So Amelia called my Dad on Skype today. Once she wandered off to make me some AMAZING cookies, Dad and I had a lovely conversation. As we were winding down this is how the conversation went:

Dad: Melody, you know us. Recommend some movies for us.

Me: Like in the theater or on DVD?

Dad: Yeah... or on Netflix.

Me: Your Netflix doesn't have anything.

Dad: It has some stuff.

Me: Ok let me get on Netflix and see what  New Releases they have.

Dad: How do you do that?

Me: I just go online. Don't worry I wont go on your account or anything.

Dad: Ok...

Me: Umm, you might like Man of steel.

Dad: Yeah?

Me: Yeah, that's the new superman one.

Dad: Oh I don't know if we are into superman...

Me: Umm.

Dad: I like the new Sherlock. Who is that guy?

Me: The one with the girl Watson?

Dad: No...?

Me: Benedict Cumberbatch?

Dad: No.

Me: Is it a British one?

Dad: No.

Me: You're sure it doesn't have a girl playing Watson?

Dad: Girl? No.

Me: Then it is probably Benedict Cumberbatch.

Dad: No I never heard of any Sunberbat. It must be another American one.

Me: Hmm, not sure about that... I haven't seen another one.

Dad: Is Watson real young?

Me: Yeah they both are. Is it set in London?

Dad: Yeah... So that must make it British.

Me: Probably.

Dad: What's his name?

Me: Benedict Cumberbatch.

Dad: That is a terrible name. No one should be named that.

Love you dad!! That made my day!!!!

Dawn Attack and Six Guns Mel

I am at war. Despite my best efforts to live as an optimist/nice person, I find myself today in an all-out fist-raised, side-taking war. I’ll admit I may have started it but I blame my parents (obviously) because parents teach us to discriminate and pass on their prejudices.  Growing up, if we were ever in the same room with them my mother would hurry us away and yell for my father who would deal with them, swiftly. They would be removed by force if necessary. So I grew up believing this was okay; clearly they were beneath us and meant us harm. As is the case with prejudice, I found a spouse who shared my beliefs even more fervently. He won’t even touch them and has been known to cower in fear when approached. To be fair, he was mercilessly bullied by them during lunchtime in grade school. They used to hide in the long grass, sneak up behind him and make him scream like a girl in front of everyone and then slink away laughing. Seriously.

 It all began a few weeks ago. I am currently taking new medication that allows me to walk like a normal person. YAY!!!! So I have been taking advantage of this and we have been going for long walks. The first wave was an all out aerial assault,  swarming around my head. Next, a kamikaze suicide bomber would say a prayer, shout love to his friends and family and aim directly at the back of my throat, choking me and, worst of all, interrupting my brilliant world-changing point. Alan, who never believes in conspiracy theories  (I will get into this in later posts but I am pretty sure he works for all the conspiracy people. He is always so calm when I bring it up and makes up some logical lie as to why my conspiracy theory is flawed. I wonder how much they pay him? Not enough or I would be flying home more often!)  defends them calmly, stating, "They are not attacking you, it is just because you are short. See, occasionally one will hit my chest.”
I respond by saying “but… I…” choke, gasp, sputter. Now, it looks like Alan is taking his crazy wife from the attic for a walk because I spend the whole time frantically waving my arms around my head.

Then this morning, it happened. A full scale assault at dawn. My beautiful daughter was peacefully killing zombies in Minecraft when I heard her scream. To be honest, I did react a little slowly because often we have screaming while killing zombies. So I said, “What?”
She said, “SPIDER! SPIDER SPIDER!”
I said “GO, GET DAD!”
By the time they returned the spider was hiding. They searched (I couldn’t help, I was making my coffee), Amelia from the top of the dining room table and Alan turning things over and then jumping back. Then, there it was, in all its evil glory. Alan grabs the bug spray and unleashes half a can on the intruder and then, as he always does, places the can of bug spray over its struggling remains. At first I thought he did this out of respect. Let the spider struggle in privacy. Come to find out it is so that the spider cannot suddenly recover from the deadly poison and attack him (who’s the conspiracy theorist now!?!)

This however, was only a decoy. The real assault was yet to come. The enemy was lying in ambush. I had finished making my beautiful cup of mocha and I had steamed a little too much milk (and we don’t just throw milk down the drain, right Mom??). So I sipped a bit off the top, to make more room. I felt a lump pass my lips. I thought at first it was a bit of cocoa. So I rolled it around on my tongue. NOT cocoa.  I spit it out. I scream for Alan. Hoping, desperate, for one of his “It’s not a conspiracy” lies. But he had no such lie. He confirmed. IT WAS A KAMIKAZE SPIDER!!! They had not only messed with my daughter but now my COFFEE!
Oh, it’s on bugs. You hear me? No more sympathetic trips outside on the edges of paper when you have invaded my house. No more careful consideration of the balance of nature. IT IS ON!!!  I am bigger than you and I have technology on my side. They will call me Six Guns Mel. And I will strike fear into the heart of insects and arachnids everywhere. My stories will be told over camp fires long after I am gone. They will whisper of the “Day of Rage” when the bugs pushed her too far and attacked not only her daughter but her coffee. And the little children will peer out from hiding under their blankets, with their big beautiful eyes, and they will say, “Did she win Momma?” and the momma will say, “Yes, she did win. Six Guns Mel conquered them all. In fact, Six Guns Mel is the reason we can drink our coffee without fear and go on killing zombies for entertainment. We owe her everything Suzy, she was a true hero.”