Every Day Happenstances (Good Morning!)

I hit the snooze button about 5 times before I decide if I wait any longer, I'll be late. I peek out the sliding glass door at the top of the small bistro table on our balcony to see what the weather has in store for the day. Huff...Thought so! I guide myself by the light seeping through the vertical blinds from the apartments behind us. They never turn off that stupid light. Aww well. I just about trip over the duvet that's fallen to the ground through our tossing and turning all night long. I was wondering why I was so cold last night. Maybe that's why I was dreaming I was in the arctic with only my bathrobe on. I'm glad I caught myself before running into the monster of a TV we have in the bedroom. I was a firm believer in the "TV's Ruin the Romance" statement, until I married a man who believed firmly in the "TV equals Romance" bit, so I compromised. I crack the bedroom door and brace myself for the sudden pounce and bound into the room from Abraham Lincoln, our cat, not the President. After recovering from this near death experience, I chase Mr. Lincoln, which further encourages his wit and rebellion. I finally surrender the exhausting task of "find the kitty under the bed." Of course I couldn't tell the difference between a cat and all the bunched together crap underneath my bed anyway. What was I thinking? That was a waste of my precious time.  I make my way down the hallway to the bathroom. I always manage to turn on the brightest light in the bathroom, blinding myself temporarily before I can find the switch to change the light source. Dang! I thought I left my morning face wash out last night, just so I wouldn't have to crouch under the sink to find everything but my morning face wash. I guess it's another game of hide and seek. I turn the water to hot, and while I wait for what seems like forever for it to warm up I decide I have enough time to relieve myself. Dag-nabit, out of toilet paper. Then of course I try to remember if I was the one to take the last of it, assuring myself that I wouldn't be so irresponsible. Moving on... The water is finally a good temperature to wash my face without sending my body into shock. Pat face dry, rub in lotion, brush teeth, clean ears, turn on flat iron and curling iron. Phew...done in under 10 minutes. Thank goodness! Don't judge, that's a world record for some. I walk out of the bathroom and turn toward my bedroom. There's Mr. Lincoln, right in the middle of the walkway, trying to dodge me as I dodge him. And who should lose their balance but me, the master. You'd think after having to do this for the last several months, I'd get the picture...he's trying to kill me. After totally embarrassing myself, I find my way back to the bedroom and get out my makeup, all 50 bags of it. Or so it seems like somedays. I usually sit in front of our wardrobe mirror and apply my makeup. This is not the best position to be in first thing in the morning; I've found myself falling asleep easily. I spend the next half hour trying to keep the cat off my lap while I try to creativaly reinvent cosmetic history. Not always so successful when 15% of my focus is actually on applying my face. Have to wash all that makeup off my hands now. Time to do the do. Straight or curly? Wait! What am I wearing again? Did I even remember to pick out my clothes last night? How about instead of standing here trying to figure it out, I go back to my closet and find out. Oh! Now I remember, black, black and black...how could I forget, I wear that color every day. While I'm standing here, I might as well get dressed, then do my hair. What time is it? Ok, I have 15 mintues. I can do this. I slip on my outfit and run to the bathroom, quickly flat iron my hair, spray some fake shine over the top of my head, unplug the irons, grab my purse and run downstairs. Feed the cat, down a cup of cold coffee, grab a yogurt and my lunch and head for the door. I always pause before opening the door. "Did I forget anything?" But even though I ask myself this question just before leaving, I always manage to forget something...important.

To be Continued---

I'm Always the Better Driver

(Heavy Breathing) "Mama?" (Heavy Breathing and a Little Crying) "Mama?!"

I'm terrified every time I get into the car with my husband. I never know if it's going to be a road rage kind of day or a Sunday driver type of day. It seems that my only source of comfort in these moments is the arm rest on the passenger side door. Every time I reach for it, a comment is made by my husband to defend his insane driving skills. It's just like in the movies, when the passenger looks out the window, they're looking straight down a cliff that seems to go on, forever and ever. With one hand over my eyes, and one hand on the arm rest, my life flashes before me...The realization of my inexperiences in life usually sparks a reaction similar to a Banshee's scream. At this point, his recklessness turns from blissful ignorance to purposeful exasperation. He knows he's got me in a vulnerable and perplexed position, so why not make the most of it, right! The real fun begins, as my expression goes from tolerance to complete terror... (See below)

Yes, I feel exactly like all these poor souls!

Question is, why am I so freaked out? Or better yet, why do I care if he drives too fast or too slow? It's not as if we've ever been in an accident due to my husband's erratic driving behavior. I guess that's just like a woman, isn't it; wanting the complete opposite from what we actually have. Am I just perturbed because I'm not in control or getting my way? We're all entitled to our opinions, right? But at what cost? When did being right become more important than being kind? Culture has inflated the necessity of rightness, which has led to tension and resentment of one another, especially in a marriage. I will be the first to admit, I use the excuse of "femininity" as an advantage of rightness whenever given the opportunity. You know, "Hunny, I need you to take out the trash? Hunny, can you drive slower? Hunny, can you move this 300 pound chair a little to the left? Hunny, can you stick your hand down the disposal and get the cat's collar out?" Then all of the sudden, we're looking at them like they're freaks for opening doors for us; how dare they, cause we're strong, independent, do-it-ourselves, type of women, and how could they take away our dignity like that! You know you're right and no one is going to change your mind. In the case of my husband's driving, I'm the "back seat driver" because of my insecurity in my lack of control in that specific situation, so this makes me "right." This is why comments like, "Chill Out," or "Calm Down" are not welcomed with open arms, but retorted with a gasp and folded arms or a Banshee scream.

This Is Called, "My Personal Space"

So you're talking to someone, you're having a great conversation, really connecting...all the sudden someone you "sort of know" comes up to the two of you and kind of hovers around, closer than you'd like them too. At first you try to ignore them, thinking, "Okay, if I give them the cold shoulder long enough, maybe they'll go away." But oh no, they stay. Like a vulture waiting to devour its dead prey, they stay. You try to switch bodily positions so that there is no way you can make eye contact with them. You can suddenly hear the pounding of your heart, and you're pretty sure everyone else can too. The frustration turns to sweat beads on your forehead. "Why haven't they left yet?!?!"  Then you feel guilty for standing there, having a great conversation that they're not apart of. So you try to introduce them into the conversation as smoothly as possible, pretending that you had no idea they were standing there the whole time...It's awkward, it's uncomfortable, and you just want to crawl underneath any piece of furniture willing to invite you into it's space. Isn't it usually a person you're ashamed of knowing or are embarrassed to  have even conversed with. You try sending hinted apologies and slight notes of caution to the blissfully unaware participant. "Do not get personal!! You'll regret it..." is what your bloodshot eyes are trying to convey to your poor friend. Sadly, this circular chain of events will never change until you "claim your space." Just like in AA, maybe you should introduce yourself as the following: "Hello, my name is Meaghan, and I have stiff boundaries. So don't even think about breaking through my barrier!" Or maybe we should all go through life with one arm stretched out in front, and one stretched behind, so there is no confusion over where your "bubble" begins and ends. But who wants to do that all day? How could we drink our coffee, or text while we drive? So, to the personal space invaders, get a clue, take a pill or find someone else to creep out, please.

I've Been Banned from Grocery Shopping

Is there a member of your family that's no longer permitted to attend the weekly or monthly grocery run? It seems that in every family, there is at least one person who's watched more than others; that one person who is notoriously characterized by their need for the needless. I don't know how it works in your household, but in ours, I'm permanently banned from grocery shopping. My husband forbids my attendance to any grocery store establishment. He understands that at some point in time, I may have to participate. In this case, he makes it very clear that both of my hands are not to leave the cart. How did it get to this point? Why have I been eternally excluded from the hustle and bustle of this housewife task? Before now, I've been in complete denial to the fact that I have a problem and that professional help may be required. When I shop, I tend to be the "Impulse Buyer." Oh yes, I'm the type they reach out to in the check out lines, with their candy bars, batteries and travel lotions. I crave the unexpected expectedness of the gotta-haves and don't-you-needs. I think I'm so clever hiding the items strategically amongst the pile of my overindulgence. The items usually go unnoticed until the cashier starts scanning the doo-dads and thing-a-ma-bops I've snuck into the cart. I suddenly feel my husband's eyes searing a hole through the back of my head. Even as shocked as I may seem, I've known this reaction was inevitable. It's been stated that I'm similar to a cat walking through the isles, distracted by every bright shiny object. To help with my problem, I've even gone to great lengths in creating a detail list of specific items needed, and specific items to stay away from. And yet, the same outcome is achieved after every exhibition. At this point in time, I'll just have to keep my hands glued to the cart. I wouldn't want to risk having a permanent hole in the back of my head, or are those great smelling travel lotions worth it?

Universal Cup Sizes, Please!

No, I don’t mean bra cup sizes! I’m talking about the everlasting conundrum of the venti vs. large vs. me crap. How many times have you walked into a non-starbucks coffee shop asking for a venti something-or-other, only to be rudely answered, “You mean a large?” No, I don’t mean a large, I mean what I just said lady! The fact of the matter is, we’re living in a generation that’s been “Venti-ed.” Basically interpreted as “spoiled.” Everyone wants to be different, in turn, no one ends up having that luxury. Therefore, we’ve ended up with a million different sizes for cups. This is why you have to squeeze that latte between your legs in the car. Someone’s “different” cup has cost you your precious cup holder, or your beautiful leather seats from spilling all over yourself. All the cup creators and manufacturers should hold a conference and develop 3-5 universal cup sizes for the entire world to adhere to. They should also invite all vehicle manufacturers, to make adjustable cup holders to fit those 3-5 cup sizes. See, simple, to the point, and it would work for everyone. No more lawsuits over spilling scalding hot coffee all over ones crotch, because the cup holder would actually be doing its job. See all they’re good for now is holding all those annoying car washing advertisements, hair pins, candy, random trash, and maybe those occasional emergency mints. What about those disgustingly large slurp, burp, jerks or whatever they’re called. Seriously, some of these x-large cups are larger than my torso. All I wanted was the x-large curly fries and I’m handed this enormous cup to go with your meal. Come on people, we may need to change the saying from wishful thinking, to wasteful thinking.

The Documented Deaths of a Sock Monkey

History of the Sock Monkey

Ever wonder where your missing socks really go? Do you really believe that they disappear in your dryer somewhere, never to be seen again? This is the lie that's been spread by a mysterious source; isn't it funny no one recalls exactly from where? Brace yourself for the truth! The first few missing socks lay dormant and quiet, only God knows where. They collect and consume poor, helpless dusk bunnies, slowly growing larger and larger, until they are completely filled. When they're strong enough, they creep out in the dead of the night. The Sock Monkey travels endlessly through your home, fervently searching through the washer, the dryer, the hampers, and if he's desperate enough, will even go through your sock drawer! He devours your helpless sock pairs, ripping them away from each other, forever...Hence, becoming the elusive Sock Monkey. If and when you spot the Sock Monkey, do not be fooled by his slight smirk, beady eyes and outstreched arms. Immediately shun his stare, sacrifice your sanity and grab him by the legs. He will attempt to coax you in with his false love and affection, do not give in! "Never give up, never surrender!" The following are ways to avenge your socks; you must deal in a way sock monkeys will understand.

P.S. Sock Monkeys have a weakness for puppy breath, grapes and gummy bears.

You can provide Mr. Sock Monkey with easy access to your "vitamin" cabinet. Make sure you take the label off of the bottles first, and he won't know the difference between Flintstone vitamins and horse tranquilizers.

Invite Mr. Sock Monkey to dinner. "Wine and Dine" the little guy. Remember, he loves grapes, so be sure to break out the savory stuff. This is your opportunity to slip him a little extra "flavor", courtesy of arsenic.

Mr. Sock Monkey may be too much for you to handle. In which case, you may need to call in the big guns...someone you can trust! Ninja Bear to the rescue! He makes everything look like an accident. Just what you need.

There's no way to make a light socket look attractive. You could however, unscrew the cover, jam some grape gummy bears into the openings, and put the cover back on. Don't forget to place the fork "strategically" next to the socket. All you have to do now is sit back, relax and watch the Electric Rave.

Conclusion of the Sock Monkey

I know by now you're thinking, "This is horrible and sickening!" Yes, you're right, it probably is. In the end, this is the way I've dealt with my Sock Monkey infestation. The first few, I decided to set free with a fair warning of consequences if they ever returned to my house. These decisions brought me years of missing sock and horrifying nightmares. I've decided to put a stop to the madness...What will you choose? The Red Pill (Death of a Sock Monkey) or the Blue Pill (Freedom and Return of a Sock Monkey)?

Wormholes

Did you ever wonder why men just couldn't keep up with woman's conversation? The infamous argument of the "stay on subject, please," from equal parties. I've heard it said before that men are like waffles and women are like spaghetti. I happen to agree with this statement. And because men are like waffles, every part of their life has it's separate box, or waffle as it were. Rarely anything from their personal life trickles into their work. Rarely any two relationships merge in some catastrophic or paralyzing way, unless it involves his mother and his wife. Men are usually clear cut, analytical, black and white horse blinders. Now you have women on the other hand. Like wet noodles, we are valleys and mountains of emotion. Everything connects to everything else. If we say one thing, it means something totally and completely different, and it will relate to something negative and positive at the same time. Yes, we really do want that birthday party we told you a week ago that we didn't want. If we're crying about something, it probably also means we're crying about 10 other things...no exaggeration. We are passionate, bipolar, dramatic energizer bunnies. There is no end to our methods or madness. They all connect in some sinister, uncanny way. Guys, let me finally put a word to your everlasting confusion regarding women's conversations. My family got together one evening, and all the girls were chatting. All the sudden we were interrupted by a very loud, abrupt explanation of "Wormhole!!!" We all shifted our attention toward the very comfy, very green La-Z-Boy sofa where my dad was reclining with a countenance of accomplishment. My mom quickly turned and asked what we were all thinking of. "What?" He repeated himself, "Wormhole...that's what you were just doing. I'm just saying." We all laughed at his explanation of the term; I think more at the fact that our behavior had finally been named after 20 years of an estrogen overrun house. See, apparently, "wormholing" is what women do to change subjects very quickly, but smoothly in a conversation. We can do it even with strangers, given it's a female. Our conversation seems to flow into relative and non-relative subjects based on memories, experience and apparently also our bipolar nature. We could be talking about puppies one moment and then all the sudden we're onto animal cruelty, and then back and forth to PEZ dispensers and beauty pageants. I'm going to give you guys the essential tool kit to surviving a wormhole invasion when you're girlfriend's pal comes over.

Rule # 1: Recognize the wormhole.

Rule #2: You need to acknowledge that your girl isn't crazy for being able to communicate with women.

Rule #3: Maybe make a mental note of how many wormholes you went through, so when you come out on the other end, you feel accomplished getting through X amount of insane subject changes.

Rule #4: Definitely the most important rule of all...NEVER mention to the girls, that they've just wormholed!

There will be so much tone in her look...drop that video game controller and run! I fear the only way men can actually participate in the wormhole is if they close their eyes and visualize themselves as Luke Skywalkwer, risking his life for the Rebellion, trudging his way through the belly of the Death Star, and making it out by the skin of his teeth. So unless you're Luke Skywalker, sorry, you'll just have to listen.