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.

High School Never Ends

Doesn't this look familiar...Odd man out...again!

Isn't it great when you graduate high school, you feel like you're able to begin your life, clean slate, responsible and drama free. You almost feel like a valuable person again. There's a concise and purposeful plan set for your future, which was crafted and designed for you by your Creator. Butterflies flutter in your stomach every time you think about what's in store for your life. You work your way through college, live off of cheap pasta, you finally get a job as an intern or beginning professional, and it's absolutely no different than walking to Mrs. Wood's English class in high school. You still have to deal with the backstabbing barracudas and melodramatic pre-Madonnas. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the thought and memories of your depressing high school days of the initiation of the "underdogs."  Do you really have to relive the all the regrettable defeats of adolescence again? All you want to say in retort to this travesty is, "You're just the worst kind of people!" and never have to look at them again. They all suddenly seem like the bridge jumping people your parents warned you about. There is always some sort of price that has to be paid in order to be accepted and valued. The cliques are just as impossible to become apart of and the groups and clubs are just as exclussive. You know the person who invented the VIP status was probably some mean girl in school, looking for a way to exclude the "frumpy girls" from specail events. The VIP tickets would be Darwin's "fittest" in the survival of the fittest theory of evolution. The world has distorted the truth of value and purpose and where we seek out acceptance. What would you rather be defined as, some snoby girls' version of a bad joke, or a reflection of your Creator?

Sheets and Lemons...Similarities?

So, how the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet? I've even saved the tri-folded cardboard that comes in the sheet packaging to try and master the folding techniques that look like something out of a "How To Become O.C.D" self-help book...I've gone to such great lengths as to clearing off and standing on top of my bed, laying the fitted sheet across the bed and attempting to perfectly fold the flaps under, over, between and around...This is when I had an epiphany. A smirk slowly crept across my face. I threw up my hands in the air and praised God for this great deliverance...All this time I had been griping and complaining over the fact that I couldn't perfectly fold my sheets, when all along all I had to do was throw them into my linen closet and forget about it. Problem solved. I won't get a migraine every time I strip my bed, and the sheets will be even more accessible and easy to pull out of the closet. I'll also be able to distinguish the difference between the fitted and flat sheet. The nicely folded and stacked pile will always be the flat sheets, and the ones balled up in the corner of the linen closet are obviously the fitted sheets.

If you absolutely, positively have to fold your fitted sheet, cause you're just as crazy as me, here are the several ways I've tried (and failed) to get the perfect folding results:

One: Stand on top of the bed, lay the fitted sheet flat and try to eyeball and fold the corners underneath each other. (This was just frustrating.)

Two: Save the cardboard that comes with the sheet set. Pull the sheet around the cardboard and stuff the excess into the cardboard. It's really not folded at all, it just looks like it. (This was just a big fat lie.)

Three: Have your husband hold one end while you hold the other. Slowly walk toward each other with your arms pulling the sheet widely apart and hope the air flowing between you two doesn't disrupt the shape and folding you did with the sheet in the air. (Exhausting and created an argument.)

Four: Start at one end and roll the sheet together and fold the sheet in half. (Just looked funny.)

Five: Throw the sheet set away and buy a new one. (This could get kind of expensive.)

Six: Leave the sheet in the dryer until you need it. (I don't really recommend this one. The sheet is just in the way when you try to do laundry.)

Seven:  Just ball it up and throw it into your linen closet. (My Favorite.)

When life hands you lemons, screw the lemonade, make margaritas!

Promless and Powerful

This is just sad! At least I never had to worry
 I'd be voted the "Fat Hoochie Prom Queen."

Whenever someone finds out that I never went to prom, they always have this look of amazement and pity on their face. I receive their pitiful expression as an implication that I'm an incomplete person for not attending prom, or that I missed out on one of life's pleasures rarely achieved. I laugh inside. I know my promlessness has made me powerful, and a better person. I believe that I have benefited greatly from my lack of "experience" in the realm of high school standards. Movies seem to glorify this shallow and over dramatized event by leading the viewers to believe that a special young lady will be the belle of the ball and that all of her dreams will come true. Well, every young lady cannot be Cinderella. The mass media has falsified true individuality, in turn, creating a  rebellious generation. It's the great struggle in discovering  one's uniqueness, consequently followed by self preservation. Either the search for individuality takes over one's life, or we take complete control, therefore becoming the "Control Freak." Either way, we lose. I don't think I missed out on much that would have added to my value or confidence as a woman, or a person for that matter. I didn't have to worry about not being asked to go, or seeing the guy I like go with my ex-bff, who knew I liked him and went with the dude anyways. Or the awkward slow dance conundrum. Where do I put my hands? I don't want to be promiscuous or a prude. Is my hair staying? It should be, cause I dumped about 2 cans of hairspray on it. Speaking of cans, is he really trying to look down my dress right now? If I slap him, I'll have to leave early, and how will I get home? How could I walk through the halls of school ever again? I'll be notoriously known as the prude who slapped and ditched her prom date. I love how people think that there's no hope for those who never attended prom, hated prom, or made a fool of themselves at prom. And now-a-days, a girl has to wonder or await the decision to lose her virginity at prom to some immature 16 year old who doesn't have a clue what he's doing. Also the type of music and dancing that's acceptable at prom now, absolutely disgusting! It looks more like dogs humping. I don't think that's where a dad wants his teenage daughter running off too with her ridiculously flirtatious and boy-crazy girlfriends. I didn't worry about giving into the peer pressures or the nagging and false assurance of who society told me to be. Instead, I picked up a great classic novel and lived vicariously through my favorite young heroines. I believe that my family gave me the proper tools to create for myself a truly unique identity, therefore instilling in me a satisfying safeness in who I am. Prom, who needs you?

A Bright Side to Traffic Lights

How many of you have ever been stuck at a ridiculously long traffic light? If I gave a speech and asked this question, I believe everyone would have raised their hand. Some may have even jumped up and down raising both hands, or maybe I'm just picturing myself in the crowd. Truth of the matter is, in every town, in every city, in every state, there's that one traffic light you try to avoid. But don't be surprised if you happen to see me sitting there. These lights which seem to piss everyone and their mother off, are my saving graces. Where do you think I get to review or revise my to-do list? Or catch up on my reading of "War and Peace;" or even make flight, hotel and car rental reservations. Come to think of it, I was sitting at a light the last time I made hotel reservations! This is the place where all business professionals should hope and strive to be stuck. Do you know how many business transactions and meetings you could complete and check off your Outlook calender while waiting at one of these lights? I've never counted them, but I'm sure the amount would be astronomical. Traffic light stops are the best place in the world! And those people in front of you taking an hour to do a u-turn, praise God for them. They just gave you an opportunity, before walking into that interview, to brush your hair...or teeth, whatever. Yes, I know most of you get that warm fuzzy feeling at the thought of all green lights on the way to work, but just think of all the books you could read in that amount of time. Just watch, now you'll see everyone lining up at the longest traffic lights all around the world. And the people behind the wheel will be jumping for joy instead of cursing the city's right to authority and order. So the next time you're sitting at a freakishly long light, just remember, this is your opportunity to be the crazy happy person making phone calls to Expedia planning your next trip to the Bahamas.

http://www.expedia.com/pub/agent.dll

Toxic Lipstick

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful princess. You know the story of Snow White; she had hair black as ebony, lips as red as a rose and skin as white as snow. She ran from her evil step-mother and came upon the home of the seven dwarves. Here she was safe until her evil step-mother, disguised as a peddler, found and convinced her to take a bite of a "bad apple," literally. Presumed dead, Snow White was laid to rest in a glass coffin for all to admire her beautiful dead body. Out of the blue, some random prince from who knows where, shows up to kiss her dead frozen lips. Snow White miraculously awakens. She leaps into the prince's arms, they ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after...Or so we were told...What the Brothers Grimm failed to capture was the aftermath of the kiss. They easily exclaimed that the ending was happy; it was much simpler to state this fact than to explain the truth. Snow White led us to believe that there was no deceit beneath her shallow, musically annoying innocence. We all believed that it was normal and sweet that a woman could fall in love with a man after one or two encounters that were, let's just say, unrealistic. There can only be two reasons that Snow White was so readily willing to be with her Prince Charming. One, she's as easy as a country Megan Fox look-a-like who orders three, double Jack Daniels with Coke on the first date; or two, she's a case of what I'd like to call, Toxic Lipstick. I'd vote on the latter; although it would be entertaining to see the Jack Daniels girl. Toxic Lipstick is the name I've given a woman that's known for her short and prosperous escapades, enjoyed by only herself in the aftermath of a failed relationship. These are the type of women who wear those daring red dresses and sit alone at the bar, acting as if they don't care if you're looking or not. (We all know they do.) She's the type that laughs in the face of others' misfortunes, and says things like, "Blah, Blah, Blah!" Not that I'm calling anyone out...The sad truth is that our poor Prince Charming was led down the infamous path of the "Players." He bought into the lie that you should follow your heart, even if it leads you straight to hell. He followed his heart straight into a painful and drawn out whine fest of the "I needed's" and "Why didn't you's." We live in the time of pampered princesses and spoiled brats claiming their entitlement and ownership of reality. The never-ending need for attention and validation of their bad behavior poisons the following generations of young women. With our society's acceptance of the "Home wrecker" lifestyle, Toxic Lipstick will live on. Why did our black-haired beauty really decide to live with seven short men neck deep in diamonds? Snow White: innocent bystander to everyday evils, or pernicious and cruel example of the prowling Toxic Lipstick? You decide.

Photo Booths

Every time my husband and I see a photo booth, we have to jump in and take a picture. You know, the colossal and invasive contraptions that are just hanging out in the middle of the mall or amusement park with that embarrassingly thin curtain, made especially that way to mock our sitting there. Yeah, that couple in there, terribly uncomfortable and laughing hysterically at how squished we are, that’s probably us. I love the diversified selection of cheap borders they’ve come up with now. The orange and black tribal border, the “We’re Angels” header with pink clouds, and my favorite, the “Best Friends” header; because you know that phase above a picture of a couple of friends is so original; not to mention that they provide that one in every color imaginable. They’re all made so specially to frame those ridiculous looking posses and awkward positions that we tried to make look so flawlessly natural. Everything is automated now. It’s so awesome! They even have a monotone, and yes, even hostile voice talking us through the process of suggestive posses. And all of the sudden, BAM! “You’re on Candid Camera!” haha!! No, not really, but seriously! Surprisingly the light flashes a couple of times, you’re not ready for it at all, and then you’re done. Next, you have to squeeze your way out of the cramped little disaster of a booth, hoping we don’t crash into a troop of emo chicks or something. Then we have to wait five minutes to get the finished product. There we are waiting by the booth; both looking down at our feet with an awkward smile, hoping we don’t catch anyone’s eye; feeling like complete idiots for spending $5 bucks on something so cheesy. Yet, there’s something about the end product…Hearing the photos drop into the dispense tray. Biting our lips while we turn the picture over to see the printed merriment…Tadaaa!! Obtuse, yet priceless! I dare you to try it out the next time you see one! Remember to dodge those emo chicks!

My Volkswagen Beetle

So what if the Beetle was voted the safest car in 1990 something. The price seemed so reasonable at the time. I thought, “Wow! This is almost too good to be true!” Well, it was and I’m definitely paying for it now. I don’t even want to tell you how many tires I’ve had to replace on my car. You’d think I was a NASCAR driver or working for the government. The hubcaps have popped off so many times I’ve lost count; I’m actually currently missing the front passenger side hubcap. I’ve replaced so many belts, pans, pads and hoses; I could have saved those parts and made another car. Not to mention the cup holders have never fit any American made cup, so I would resort to just placing the cup in my lap… Smart… The whole car smelled like old milk from spilling iced lattes all over myself, so I bought one of the most potent car fresheners out there. The scent was something like “Baby Powder” or “Fresh Powder.” I just about died every time I stepped into my car. I had constant headaches and came out smelling like a freakin’ nursery. You better believe I trashed that freshener right away. So now my car smells like old milk with remnants of baby powder. I think it smells worse than before. My air conditioner stopped working 3 years ago when my sister and I decided to take a road trip across the country to California. Did I happen to mention that it stopped working in the middle of the desert in June… That was pleasant! I have lost all control of my “power windows.” I have to actually tug on the top of my window when it’s open to get it to even move an inch. My tape player died about 3 years ago (who has cassette tapes anyway), the 6 disk CD player in the trunk stopped working 6 years ago and the AM/FM button popped off when the dealership tried fixing the tape player. By the way, they never fixed any of those problems, shocker. My antenna looks like mice have gnawed off the aesthetic exterior coating, so now all you see is the coil wiring…lovely. BEWARE car buyers, stay away from Volkswagens! At least the Beetle side of the lot…Every part underneath the hood is plastic, plastic, plastic. If you want a car that will be in the shop the majority of the time you own it, step right up, sign your name in that stupid computer, and let this mass European corporation decide what car is best for you. What you don’t really know, is that the car salesman has screened you for your perfect fit, excuses himself for just a moment, and suggests while you wait, to try their new “Sign and Drive” event…Just sign the key pad, and your signature tells the computer what car is best for you…Yeah right, cause my hand has made me very happy. It’s the reason I’m so successful. Every important decision I need to make, I’m sure to consult with my writing hand first. Please tell me that the salesman didn’t just step away and put your name and preferred car in the computer. I’m sure every dealership or even every car has their thing, but when it’s one thing after another, enough is enough. I would not wish this car on my worst enemy.