Disapointing Martha Stewart

When I was home, in Michigan, over Thanksgiving, I was told I needed to send out Christmas cards. I pride myself in not having "Christmas Card Friends." You know who they are. The people you only talk to through Christmas cards.

Thank you Facebook.

I figured I could do my part and keep the post office in business for another week or so; and prepared 57 Christmas cards. No, I take that back. I prepared 57 Christmas envelopes and 54 Christmas cards. Yeah, three people only got an envelope. Oops! Sorry.

Well, and one family only got a piece of paper with, "Hello!" written on it.

 I may rock out thank you notes, but I drive the struggle bus when it comes to Christmas cards.

I didn't realize how much extra stuff went into Christmas when I was little. It was pretty easy, open the advent calender, eat the chocolate, count down the days until Santa comes and then open presents.

Right, well, I still count down the days until Santa arrives; but now I have to go Christmas shopping, make cookies, decorate the apartment, wrap presents, ship presents, find the stockings, track down the UPS and FedEx delivery people, find someone to wrap my presents (Thank you Meghan W!) and figure out how to get snow! 

It's a very stressful time. Thankfully, there is enough sugar sitting around that this isn't as stressful as one would think. I'm living on the Elf diet, observing the four main food groups: Candy, candy canes, candy corn and syrup!

The sugar crash is not pretty.

My wrapping skills are also not pretty. After the second present I wrapped I ran out of Scotch tape. No worries, like everyone we have another roll or seven lying around. We don't. So, instead of going to the store (I refuse to go unless I have to around Christmas) I found packaging tape and wrapped the presents with that.

My wrapping skills are pretty horrible. I mean they are so horrible little kids make fun of it. I don't know how people are able to put crisp edges and have the paper lay smooth on the box. My wrapping job looks like it went seven rounds with Mike Tyson.

The edges are torn, air pockets are all over the place, the paper never matches up the way it did before I cut it, and the tape sticks to the wrong part of the paper. You can definitely tell I am not employed in the wrapping section in Santa's Workshop.

I can see Martha Stewart shaking her head in disgust looking at the presents I wrapped. She's also shaking her head at my lack of baking.

Here's the deal. I don't enjoy making cookies. I find it to be out of control painful. We used to bake and decorate cookies when I was little. I liked decorating them and I liked eating them.

When my sister and I were in high school she had friends over and they baked cookies. I would join in, and was quickly yelled at for whatever cookie faux pas I committed. My sister was a tad stressed, so it was usually me mixing something on low instead of medium or putting in to many chocolate chips into the chocolate chip cookies. I ask, how can you have to many chocolate chips? That's right. You can't.

I also don't have the patience to make them and I hate the mess you have to clean up. The oven scares me and I'm not a big cookie eater. I give all my cookies to Cookie Monster. I'm sharing.

I have a friend who is really into baking, like she puts people on those cooking shows to shame. To shame.

She has everyone over to make ginger bread houses. Simple enough. I can handle building a house made out of gingerbread. Mostly, I can handle eating the candy. Again, I hear Martha screaming at me about eating the props for making a house.

In addition to making houses, my friend suggested we all bring cookies and do a cookie swap.

Oh no!

One, I can't bake. Two, I have to make cookies? Just call the Fire Department and have them sit in my living room.

I may not be Cookie Monster, but I am a Puppy-Chow hound. I can eat that stuff all day long.

For those of you unfamiliar with it, it's chocolate chips, peanut butter and powdered sugar covering Crispix. The lame people call it Muddy-Buddies.

Anyway, if I'm going to make something for a cookie exchange I can handle Puppy-Chow. Again, Martha is shaking her head trying not to smack me in the head as I use the microwave to "bake."

Yeah, well guess what Martha, everyone loves Puppy-Chow. Suck on that you pine cone decorating..... Oh, man. I might need to see someone about me having a fight with Martha in my head.

Anyway, Chris and I are doing Christmas the best we can. It might not be perfect, but we have not burned down the apartment.  

Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, and a Happy New Year!

Stupid Green Pipe Cleaner in Tree Form

If Scrooge and the Grinch had a child before they reformed and found Christmas, that child would be my apartment manager.

In a memo left on the door, in an email and personal reminders whenever I step foot into the office: NO REAL CHRISTMAS TREES.

Why don't you go stomp on Baby Jesus while you're at it?

As long as I can remember my family would go out and cut down a Christmas tree. Bring it home and wrestle it into its stand. The top of the tree needs to touch the ceiling and full enough to take up the entire corner, or room. That is a Christmas Tree.

Chris and I are looking at houses. I don't care about anything but how tall the ceilings are. I need the tallest ceiling possible so I can have a monstrous Christmas tree. I have my priorities.

A tree is not one you go to a lot and pick out, nor does it in a box and needs to be assembled. No, those are not trees. Those are pipe cleaner holders.

The last two years I did not have a tree, arguing I would rather have nothing rather than a fake tree. I still argue that.

A fake tree is horrible. It doesn't look like a tree, it doesn't smell like a tree, and it is not a tree. No matter how hard Target tries to convince me it's a 7 foot Linden Pine.

Newsflash! It's not a pine and it's not a Linden if it's plastic and comes in three parts.

I can understand people having fake trees if they are allergic to the pine needles or sap. I still think they make Haz-Mat suits for a reason.

I said I would never get fake tree. I would rather have nothing than a fake tree.

Like last year, I unpacked my Christmas ornaments and placed them around the house. I hung the lights in the hallway, and put up our stockings.

It didn't feel like Christmas. Maybe because I'm not celebrating it like I did for the first 22 years of my life. Maybe because it's 40 degrees outside and I know I will not have a white Christmas. Stupid temperate climate. Or, maybe there is something about having a tree.

I bit the bullet. I got a tree substitute. It's a teeny tiny tree-like-shaped-thing that fits in a small corner. It's a stupid tree-like-shaped-thing.

It holds ornaments and a strand of lights. That's basically it. It also drops plastic green flakes. It is not a tree. I repeat it is not a tree.

Chris grew up with an artificial tree a.k.a tree impostor, and does not understand what the big deal is about a tree out of the box.

He says I only like real trees because I enjoy the hunt for it. True. I love looking for my Christmas tree. I love cutting it down, and I love the smell of pine.

I don't care what you say, spraying pine scent is not the same.

Some people claim the the fake trees are cleaner. I don't understand that argument. I have green PLASTIC bits all over the living room. At least needles fall straight and don't multiply.

Yes, I am being totally and completely unreasonable and finding every flaw with the tree impostor I can.

Also, the trunks of REAL trees aren't shiny. Yeah, I see you metal post.

This is not a Christmas Tree. This is an ornament holder.

I can bend the branches to 90 degree angle. That's not right. I wrote my name in the branches, bending them into an M and an O. Horrible. Absolutely horrible.

I'll tolerate this year, while making obnoxious comments about the stupid tree-like-shaped-thing. But next year?

Oh, I'm going all out for the Christmas tree next year. I'm going to put Clark Griswold's tree to shame. To shame.

I am the 67.8% Complaining About Healthcare

I should be occupying Seattle, or Wall Street, or something other than my couch. I fit the Occupier 99% demographic perfectly. I have a college degree without a job. I enjoy making signs and sleeping in tents. I find the banks and healthcare to be annoying (and I have healthcare and a banking account).

I don't know if what I lack in doing math stuff, I make up for in common sense but I'm thinking camping in cities is not accomplishing what you think it is. Hear that? Yeah, that's people laughing at you on their way to work.

I can be laughed at from the comfort of my home, thank-you-very-much.

Everyone has choices in life. I chose to marry well, instead of sleeping in a tent. The perfect princess story.

No, not really. I married well with the intention I would find a career. Not a job, anyone can find a job. People are always looking for convenience store clerks and people to fill their coffee cups.

When you're twenty something you don't really think about healthcare. You think about beer, bars, TV, and that bill you kinda-sorta-maybe forgot about. Most companies offer some type of healthcare, and if they don't, you buy it. Done. Or, you take the risk that you won't need it.

I have healthcare now. It is one of the best plans you can have in the U.S. and it still has its flaws.

I spent more than an hour on the phone with Orlando, a man who does not know his numbers, my name or how to abbreviate Washington. I'm thinking healthcare is unnecessary if I have to deal with Orlando ever again.

"What state do you live in?'
"Washington."
"Right, WH. It's not coming up."
"No, Washington. Like George Washington?"
"Oh, are you in DC?"
"No, I'm in Washington State."
"Oh, WS. It's not coming up. Where do you live again?"
"W as in Walrus. A as in apple."
"WA? What comes up after that?"
"Nothing, that is my state's abbreviation."

Insert me beating my head against a wall.

After he figured out where I lived, we now had to go over my city. The doctor's phone number. And why the doctor's phone number was not coming up. After another circle conversation, I figured out he wanted the FAX number.

Did you know those were different?

He didn't.

He then wanted me to call my doctor's office, have them fax all of my records to him, and then he would set up my prescription by mail account. Uhhhhh, no.

1) I am not making the busy office people do more work.
2) I don't want my records being sent to you, you creepy man.
3) Call me paranoid, and I know my records are viewed by insurance companies all the time, I just don't want them being faxed.
4) Why is this so difficult?

"What is your doctor's name?"
"Le (pronounced Lee) L-E."
"I'm not finding her. What is her first name?"
"True, T-R-I-E-U"
"I'm still not finding her."
"Can you spell her last name again?"
I do.
"Can you spell her first name again?"
I do.
"What city is the office located?"
"Redmond"
"What is the address again?"
I tell him.
"And what is her last name?"

By this point I am five seconds away from cancelling my health insurance then dealing with the cotton headed ninny muggins for another second.

After another 20 minutes, he was able to locate my doctor.

After all that, I find out that instead of calling in my refill into the pharmacy. I now have to call my doctor to have her rewrite the prescription to send to the insurance company to have the insurance company mail it to me.

Does that seem weird to anyone else?

I appreciate the healthcare, I really do. But this is just insane!

This is taking advantage of the system health insurance created. This is making me jump through unnecessary hoops. This is just mean. Not just to me, even if I do have to make a million more phone calls than necessary, but also to my doctor who already wrote the prescription the first time!

 I don't think anything is going to fix the horrible thought process that created the horrible system. It's beyond broke.

So I am the 67.8% I have healthcare, but no job. I have a degree with student loans but am not sleeping in a tent on a sidewalk. I also enjoy showering regularly and my comfy bed.

Yes, I want changes. Am I going to boycott? Not with my injury record. Besides, a boycott of one isn't a boycott, it's called ignoring.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do, but it will probably involve a Super Soaker, orange soda, a Slip N' Slide, and cotton balls.

High Heels

I don't care who invented them. I don't care if they were originally designed for horse soldiers to keep their feet in the stirrups, or for French women of Royal Court.

I don't care if Leonardo Da Vinci designed them, or some sick husband who didn't want his wife to be able to walk properly. I don't care if a cobbler for the British Royal Court designed them, or God himself.

All I know, is two days after the fact, my feet are killing me.

I love shoes. If I could, I would buy a pair of shoes a week. Of sneakers.

Soft on my feet, and cushy on my soles.

Easy on and easy off. I can wear them for hours and they go perfectly with my jeans and basketball shorts.

Heels, on the other hand have been designed by the devil himself. The pain!

If I wanted my feet to feel like they are being stoned with fire, I would have lit them on fire and chucked rocks at them.

So why did I expose myself to the pain?

Because, apparently, this is what women do. They find the hottest pair of heels and wear them. Some people can ignore the pain, I'm not sure how. They must use pain numbing lotion or have no feeling below their knees.

The morning of the party I visited DSW and with four other women, also attending the party, we tossed boxes of shoes towards each other. I'm not sure how the five inch black patent leather shoes ended up in my possession; but I placed them on my feet, rolled up my jeans, and was immediately told to buy them.


My shoes are on the right. So beautiful, yet so painful.

I was told my legs looked amazing.

I was told they go with every dress, so I wouldn't have to do the mad scramble for shoes ever again.

I was told they were the sexiest shoes.

I listened.

I should have gone with the two inch heel. I should never have listened to those other women.

Had I been thinking, women do this to each other all the time. We compliment them in a way to break their feet so we can steal their shoes. Women are mean, but when it comes to shoes, we're down right vicious.

Apparently, I enjoy pain and being abused.

Pain is what I received, but my legs did look good.

I lasted the walk from the car to to Chris's Christmas party. It is two blocks, a walk I make all the time in the summer. I swear, the walk became longer in heels. Two blocks? Try seven miles.

My feet were killing me before we grabbed a plate of food. Ten minutes later, the shoes were off.

My friends stood there, staring at my bare feet, making fun of how I couldn't last thirty minutes. Five minutes later another woman had her heels off.

Health code enforcers made us put our heels back on, understanding that four hour heels do not exist.

Four hour heels, no. Four hour sneakers, hell yes.

For the entire night, I was slipping my shoes on and off as needed. Grimacing every time they went on, sighing with relief when they came off.

My toes and feet were beginning to look like a mangled mess. I'm pretty sure if it was possible, my toes would have broken off my foot. No, not break, but fall off my foot.

How badly did my feet hurt at the end of the night? I walked through Seattle Center in my bare feet. Yes, the idea of walking bare foot in Seattle seemed like a better idea then putting my gorgeous shoes back on.

I did put my shoes on when we approached the street.

Yes, I know I could have stepped on something, but my feet hurt so badly I didn't care. I never have that issue with my comfy sneakers.

Oh, and the women hoping to steal my heels when my feet broke from being jammed into the shoes, did not get my shoes. I guarded those suckers with my life. One day I'll want to wear them again, like next week. 

The Exciting Flight Home

After a 10 day trip home for Thanksgiving Chris and I entered Detroit Metro Airport for the journey home.

It's amazing how it only takes four hours to travel across the country. It was a trip that used to take years, several horses and oxen and a case of scurvy. At least that's how it happened in the computer game, "Oregon Trail."

Now it takes four hours in a plane that smells like dirty feet, and stale burgers, while violating personal space. That's the best part of airline travel, because now TSA plays thirty questions.

"He'll circle, and I'll ask the questions," TSA man says handing my boarding pass to the man who has Chris's.

Fine, whatever. I'm tired and crabby. A horrible combination for making it through security without being arrested.

"Where are you going?" on of the two TSA agents asks looking at me. 
"Seattle."

"Are you traveling together?"
"Yes."

"How do you know each other?"
Seriously? You have our IDs. Look at the names and address. I'm pretty sure strangers do not have the same last name and address.
"We're married."

"Why were you here in Detroit?"
"Visiting family for the holidays."

"What do you do in Seattle?"
"I'm a writer and he works for Microsoft."

"Are you allowed to speak?" TSA man asks Chris.
Dude? For real? If you want him to answer, look at him. Following proper conversation/interrogation rules, if you're looking at me then I am the person you want to answer.

"What is your last name?" The second TSA man asks.
"Diehl."

TSA man 1 and 2 look at each other, using special secret TSA eyebrow movements.
"No more questions."

And through the radiation chamber we went. With all the crazy technology you would think my pony tail did not need to be patted down and stripped searched. Apparently, it does. For real? I've given up on people having common sense.

Michigan State was playing Florida State at 7:30 last night. All I wanted to do was get on the plane and hopefully watch the game on the amazing backseat TV screens.

We were late boarding, and people insisted in standing in front of me while I tried to watch basketball from 50 yards away. As we're walking down the gangway to the plane, our pilot says, "Grab my parachute, and call for help."

Things I do not want my pilot to say.

The pilot should not be needing a parachute, because that means I need a parachute, and as much as I want to go skydiving, I am not going to go skydiving with Delta. Call me crazy.

He insisted it was a Far Side Cartoon. I really hope he was.

We get on the plane, and no one can sit down in a quick manner. I think people are getting dumber.

Get on plane, sit in seat, chuck stuff under seat in front of you. And wait to take off.

Remember how I'm tired and crabby? I'm beyond tired, and am finding everyone's inability to sit down so we can take off so I can watch the Michigan State basketball game annoying.

I'm so tired I am actually able to doze on an airplane. Something that never happens. I would have slept better if the flight attendants and pilot did not think the PA was the coolest toy of the season.

Need to know every drink and every snack they have? They'll tell you.

Want to know why there's turbulence?
They'll tell you.

Want to know where the turbulence will be less?
They'll tell you.

The only thing they didn't tell us, is what lake in North Dakota we were flying over.

I finally was able to sleep, curled up in a tiny ball, my legs bent underneath me. Of course, in this position I could not have my seat belt on. Not a big deal. If the plane goes down, a seat belt is not going to help me.

Delta disagrees.

We hit a bit of turbulence and the next thing I know I am surrounded by flight attendants telling me to buckle my seat belt.

Buckled.

I should learn to fly my own plane, where I don't need a seat belt and TSA can't talk to me, or feel up my pony tail.

Size 6+ Need Not Enter

Want to feel self conscious and as insecure as a 13-year-old girl?

Want to see every imperfection and flaw your body has, making you wish life and mirrors came with air brushing?

Stay out of the dressing rooms!

I am not a self conscious person.

I am not fat.

I have curves. I will never be a size 2 and for the most part I'm okay with that. Until I go dress shopping.

But nothing makes me feel worse than trying on clothes.

I would rather bring home items and find they are a tad to small or a tad to big then deal with seeing myself in a full length mirror on four walls pointing out every flaw.

I swear dressing rooms are designed to make me feel as horrible about my self as possible.

Nothing makes me feel worse about myself then not fitting into a pair of jeans or dresses that are marked as my size.

Not only am I self conscious of my body in the dressing room, I then have to deal with the added annoyance of nothing fitting.

Everything is beyond tight and accents the hips in the worse way possible.

I know sizes vary by designer, but when I can't tell the difference between a size 2 and a size 6 (for the guys it's like an 18 and a 24) then there is something wrong with the models, claiming to be a size 6, or I need to eat nothing but laxatives and drink nothing but water.

That's the perfect thing to eat at Thanksgiving.

"No, no stuffing for me. Thanks. I'll just eat these laxatives while I watch you eat that delicious turkey. I'm thinking that will bring a very quick family intervention.

I can accept I am not seven feet tall and weigh more than 50 pounds. Really, I can accept it.

I cannot accept that I am unable to fit into a size supposedly two times larger than my normal one. Not that it won't zip, or it stretches across my hips straining the material making it look like waves. No, I'm talking about a dress I can't even get over my shoulders.

I promise I was not in the junior department.

If it says it is my size, it should at least fit. It's one thing to be a tad to small, because nothing is made exactly the same; but it's something else entirely when two times larger than my size is still to small.

If it's going to be that bad, why can't the store put up a sign saying, unless you're boobless and look like a cocaine addicted, anorexic skeleton please save yourself the trouble, buy yourself a cookie and don't try anything on in this store.

What a wonderful sign that would be. I can go on my merry way eating a cookie and find a dress in a store that fits me; without the help of a glue gun, safety pins, and three women trying to squeeze the zipper shut.

Okay, it was never that bad, but it sure felt like it.

So, after a major hit to the self esteem and wondering what the best diet would be to lose 75 pounds before Chris's Christmas party, in a week; I found a dress.

Twenty minutes later Visa notified Chris I found the perfect dress 1,900 miles from home. Got to love security.

Making Good Decisions

I have a friend that says there are two decisions you make with every action. The wrong decision and the proper one.

Being tailgated?
Proper decision: Pull over in a well lit parking lot, like a gas station or an open shopping center and hope the car passes.
Bad decision: Slamming on your breaks, cursing him, while you wave a gun around.

On my way to the library today a dark car turned out into traffic behind me. The road is always crowded, mostly because of the abundance of traffic lights stopping cars every twenty feet. I really wish I was exaggerating.

I don't observe the three car length between me and and the car in front of me. Mostly because I would have cars cutting me off every three seconds, and I would never leave the intersection during rush hour. So I don't blame the car for being on my bumper.

I just don't like it. If I can't see your headlights or bumper I know you are way to close.

I tried my best to brake gently so I didn't have Mr. Put my car as close to you as possible so when you brake I can sue you for stopping short and damaging my car so I can get the dent fixed that's been there for over a year and not have to pay for it.

I stayed exactly 30 mph, the posted speed limit. I made sure I used my turn signal, I stopped fully at stop signs and well behind the white line before I crept up to make my right turn on red. I became the infuriating perfect driver.

Every turn I made the car followed me, inching closer and closer. I swear he was a centipede width away from my bumper.

Remember what car I drive. My rear bumper can rest gently on the hood of his car, with little to no damage done to my vehicle. With this in mind I kept on driving to my destination. I figured if he followed me into the parking lot, I could loop around and drive the 30 feet to the police station.

I look in my rear view mirror one more time and feel like an idiot. I don't know why I didn't see it before, but I was ecstatic I was the perfect driver. On the dashboard sat more equipment than Inspector Gadget could dream of.

There was an extra side mirror, one of those round ones that eliminate your blind spot. There was also an uniformed officer with aviators behind the steering wheel.

I was being tailgated by an unmarked police car. A police officer. One of Redmond's finest.

Well, if I'm going to be tailgated by a cop' I might as well have some fun. I purposely drove around the block the library is on, past the police station entrance. He did not turn into the police station.

Weird.

He stayed closer than white on rice to me as I navigated a shopping center parking lot.

He got even closer when I braked for school children crossing the street.

I looped the block, turned on my blinker to indicate my left hand turn into the library. He stayed behind me.

I waited for a very large gap, not wanting him to think I was endangering lives with a quick turn into the parking lot. This was a good ten minute wait. He waited.

I should have offered him coffee. That was rude of me.

I turned into the library, and he quickly made a U-turn cutting off a minivan and returned in the direction we came from.

Apparently, the three turn law does not apply here. Or he knew I knew he was cop and wanted to have some fun. Or he was running my drivers record trying to figure out where Ferris State is located.

Way to keep the streets safe Mr. Police Officer.

Death by Hypothermia

Jeans, long sleeve shirt, hoodie, and ski socks are not enough to keep me warm this dreary day. I've burrowed under an afghan (the blanket, not a person from Afghanistan) a down comforter, a jersey blanket (blanket made out of same material as my comfy hoodie) and a no sew fleece blanket.

I swear I can see my breath when I exhale. I also think my eyes are at risk of freezing shut.

No, we have not moved to the Russian Tundra, Antarctica, or the North Pole. We are still living in the so called temperate climate of the Northwest.

I love cold weather. I really do. In fact, I'm encouraging the rain and cold. It means snow in the mountains. That means skiing.
I just don't think my house should be colder than outside.

Light the fire place you tell me; turn on the heat you tell me. A normal person would. Except, our fireplace is blocked by a TV stand and two monitors. To light a fire would probably ensure I burned down my apartment.

"Yeah, hi Honey, I'm just interrupting you at work to tell you I burned down our apartment complex."

That's going to go over so well.

As for being a normal person and turning on the heat?

Well...

I have a husband that left the house this morning dressed as if it was the middle of July. If he thinks 40 degrees is warm enough to wear shorts; he's going to think ice hanging from the ceiling is perfect weather to have a pool party.

The compromise has been setting the thermostat to 50. It was a compromise mostly because Chris left for the weekend and I wasn't going to freeze to death.

Chris might become a tad chilly, but is able to become warm with one blanket; unlike some, who needs every blanket and hand warmers.

It's alright. I get the last laugh in the summer, when its 90 and Chris claims to be melting.

All I have to do is not suffer hypothermia before then.

Keeping in Touch

I'm technically sitting in your pocket, purse, jacket or bag. I'm sitting on your desk, floor, couch, chair, or under the mail and bills.

Okay, maybe not me personally, but whatever device you have that connects me to you is.

Gone are the days of writing letters to people. Gone are the days with phones ringing in empty houses. Technically, the days are gone where you even have to call someone. Or use a phone. You can Email, Facebook, and Twitter someone faster than calling them. Remember Instant Message? Wow, that was instant.

It's so easy now to spit out a 100 character text to your friends that you forget what their voices sound like.

It's so easy to stay connected with friends, except I don't.

Yup, you heard that right. I rarely talk to my high school and college friends. I check their status updates, and read their tweets, but I never really talk to them.

 I know my friend in Alaska is doing well, and her husband is training for the State Troopers, but I haven't talked to her since high school, and haven't typed her since fall of 2009.

Thank you, Facebook.

At this rate, do we even need class reunions? Will I even remember how to talk to these people?

Yes, of course I will. But it's just crazy that I just hung up the phone with one of my best friends, and she pointed out we've only talked once in the last year. And that was at Chris and my wedding. Oops.

We email weekly, and are constantly sending texts back and forth. But an actual conversation? Nope.

We've both been extremely busy. She's working three jobs and studying for a personal training license. I've been writing, and job searching. There is also the three hour time difference that makes it tricky.

If I wait longer than 6 p.m. PT than I'm afraid it's to late to call. Wow, we've become lame in our post college years.

It's also awkward. Not always, but sometimes. I spoke to a friend from high school this past weekend, for the first time in forever. It wasn't awkward, as much as there wasn't anything to say. We knew what was happening because we're addicted to Facebook, and know everything that has been happening.

Thanks Mark Z. Way to kill conversation.

I know letter writing is not going to come back. I think we've all established we would rather deal with Internet viruses and spam then waiting five to seven days for a letter. That isn't time efficient at all. I need an answer, and I need one now damnit!

Need? No. Expect? Yes.

Why?

Because it's the 21st century and I know you have multiple ways of me contacting you.

Stalkers. We've all become crazy stalkers.

All I want is to know if you want to go to the bar tonight, and I've turned into a crazy person.

I tried going off the grid last month, and I'll post a blog about that later, but I've never felt more alone, and left out  of what is happening in the world.

No wonder Charles Dickens was such a dark writer. He didn't have anything to keep in contact with his chaps from school. If only he had Facebook. No. A phone. No. Email. No.

 Writing letters probably worked out well for people back then.

As for now, I think I need to work on communicating. Or at least checking Facebook more often.

Cleaning out the Car

Every three months the vehicle is waxed. The interior needs to be vacuumed at least once a month, and if you even think of opening a can of soda, or a snack you must put your head out the window.

Mountain bike, tent, surfboard and rollerblades clutter

the back of my car. I might have a few hobbies.

I'm not like my friend. 

The car is washed when the rain doesn't do a good enough job getting the dirt and mud off it. I only vacuum when there is more dirt and sand inside my car than on the beach.

Chris and I joke about our cars being the basement of our apartment. Therefore, we have a ton and a half of junk (ahem, very useful items) in our cars.

Need a change of clothes? Got it.

Water or Gatorade? Got it.

An air compressor? Got it.

Want to take an impromptu bike ride? We can do that.

I'm basically ready for any event, disaster, softball game, or camping trip.

Inside my car is a mountain bike, softball bag, roller blades, hockey stick, ski boots, empty soda bottles, three pairs of shoes and the hoodie I've spent the last three weeks looking for.

In about three weeks skis and a snowboard will also be added to the back of my car. The bike might come out, and if I'm feeling really motivated I might take my car through the car wash. Maybe.

The mess doesn't bother me. I know it's weird, but it doesn't. It might be a Jeep thing.

When my friends asked if I could pick them up from the airport I said it would not be a problem. Picking them up is not a problem. Cleaning out my car is.

My car is driven only by me, and I rarely have a second person in it, therefore it is a mess. It is such a mess, that even the messiest person in the world has a desire to organize my car upon entry.

Now that I'm 25, I should probably take on some more responsibility in my life. Keeping my car clean seems like a good place to start.

I've changed my mind. I'll do it when I'm 26. For now, I'll just move the stuff around so people have a place to sit.

Halloween Costume Search

Halloween is my favorite time of year. Mostly because it's two days after my birthday so not only do I have thirty pounds of candy, I also have presents. It's way better than Christmas.

Besides celebrating my birthday, I love creating costumes for this amazing holiday. Most of my costumes need to be pieced together or made (usually by my Mom). Every year I need to explain what I am, and every year someone says I don't get it.

Good, you're not supposed to get it. Well, you are, but that's not the point. The point is I don't like to the generic princess for Halloween.

In the past I have been (the ones I remember anyway):

A tree (leaves glued to a paper bag)
A gorilla (I was the warmest kid in the neighborhood. To bad no one knew what I was)
Timon, from Lion King
Clark Kent (No, not Superman. What a wimp, getting taken down by Kryptonite)
Steve Yzerman (This one I did twice, both times it was a hit. Easiest costume ever)
My American Girl Doll (we wore jeans and a T-shirt)
White Trash (white trash bag with trash taped to me)
Walking Dead (dressed in black, had fantastic face paint and a tombstone attached to me)

There were also the generic buy them from the store costumes:
Genie from Aladdin (Abu wasn't an option)
An M&M
Cat in the Hat

Good costumes, but not nearly as fun as the ones mention previously. Or even what I'm going as this year.

This year I get to carry two swords. It's my birthday, I can do what I want, and I want two swords.

This has been a tough year trying to decide what to do for Halloween. I was originally going to go as Tonks from "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix." I wanted to carry my knife sharpener as a wand.

Then we had the idea to go as the cast from a British TV show, "IT Crowd." That fell through, as a key member decided to go as something else. (It wasn't me)

Then I was going to go as a Hipster Hunter, but it was pointed out I would probably end up in jail as I trapped most of the Seattle population in a fish net.

So I am now going as Fruit Ninja. Chris is dressing as a banana, if we can ever find a banana two days before we need it. And as Fruit Ninja I get to chase him around Seattle, with swords.

I have a feeling the swords are going to be taken away very quickly.

Happy Halloween everyone!

When Mo Begins a Project

My favorite book in the world is If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.

If you're not familiar with it, it goes something like this: If you give a mouse of cookie he will want a glass of milk to go with it. It's a book where one action causes a chain reaction of events. If I learned anything from it, it's this: don't start a project unless you're willing to paint the house.

I should have kept that in mind today. All I wanted to do was find my swim goggles. I moved the golf clubs out of the bedroom so I could search the floor. That caused me to move the bed, then the dressers, then I had to move the old TV out of the room. I am now climbing over it in the hallway.

I've then stacked, packed and moved all of the clutter we've acquired in the last couple weeks, months, years, in boxes and bags.

Don't worry all of Husband's things have been kept together, so he can decide where to place them.

I have since been desk hunting so I no longer have to write on the couch, and can be a tad more productive.

To fit a desk in the room, I now need a shelf to hold the miscellaneous items that were on the TV, dressers, and Tupperware container, acting as a night table.

Chris is out of town for a couple days, and I'm thinking I'm not going to be allowed to be left alone again. If Mo starts a project, she's going to rearrange the apartment.



School Bullying,The Zebra Concept

In the animal food pyramid, lions are sitting nice and pretty on top. Lions are feared by the other animals who know they will end up on the lions’ menu at some point that week.

Lions are attractive beasts, one of the favorites at the zoo and in the wild. They ooze self-confidence, without a care in the world. Dress them in name brands, style their manes a bit, and you have the kids that make everyone’s lives miserable. The popular kids.

Let’s be honest for a second. Middle and high school is a concentrated safari. It is the epitome of Darwin’s Survival of the Fittest.  You don’t have to be the fastest zebra; you just can’t be the zebra being eaten.

Think about it. When a lion captures a zebra and is about to eat it, do the other zebras help it? No.

Why? Because they don’t want to be eaten either. By not drawing attention to yourself you can make it past lion dinner time undetected.

As long as the lion is going after another zebra, all the other zebras are safe. They are secretly thrilled someone else has taken the fall so they will not be targeted.

It’s not just in the safari, it’s in schools too. This is why, when adults ask the student being bullied if anyone steps in to help, the answer is almost always no.

By speaking up it puts a target on your back and you become dinner for the lion. He is more than happy to make your life miserable, because if you are miserable and hated by all, then he is not. And a bully is created.  

Bullying in schools is not going to stop. It’s been happening since caveman days. People find the weaker people to pick on. It happens in schools, it happens in the real world, it happens in the grocery store. People are mean.

So, what to do about it?

Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold made headlines on April 20, 1999 when they took matters into their own hands and opened fire on their classmates at Columbine High School. It was a tragic event, but it was the first time parents, teachers, and schools made anti-bullying an important issue in schools.

They’ve failed.

I was in sixth grade when Columbine made headlines. Teachers pleaded with us to come to them if we were ever bullied.

I’m sure the teachers meant well, but by telling a teacher you’re setting yourself up to be the lions’ next meal. As soon as you narc, your troubles increase by a million. Ask any student, and they will tell you it’s better to suffer silently then deal with the consequences of telling.

Schools paraded their new rules and punishments if students bullied one another. Students signed pledges, promising they would not bully or tease their classmates, and would stop people from bullying others.

It’s not working.

At least four teenagers in 2011committed suicide because they could not take the bullying anymore.  Were the bullies punished? No.

Insert gasps of shock here. Schools are supposed to be safe places for children, there should not be bullying. 

To you I say wake up.

Say what you want about bullies placing their insecurities and anger on other students. Or say bullies pick on the person they are the most intimidated by. You say bullies are more insecure than you.

Say it until it makes you feel better, because that doesn’t change how bullies are perceived.

You don’t see bullies committing suicide because they cannot face another day at school. You don’t see bullies sitting alone at the lunch table, or in the bathroom trying to wash their lunch off their shirt.

Bullies don’t wear the stereotypical chains, piercings, tattoos, and odd clothing the Disney Channel, cartoons, and other shows depict.

 You see bullies wearing the right clothes, with friends laughing and joking. You see students who are confident, and like to tease people. All in good fun, of course. I bet you wouldn’t be able to pick a bully out of a line up.

Unfortunately, school bullying comes down to teachers. As much good as teachers do, they can’t be everywhere. They don’t see the shove into the locker, the written notes of hatred passed in class. They don’t see the lunch being stolen, or the body slam in gym class. They don’t hear the whispers in the hallways. They don’t see what happens on the bus or on the walk home.

Adults don't see the text messages, the Twitter and Facebook posts. You try, but you can't see what is happening to your child or students.

Teachers are people too, and they can’t see everything, they’re not Superman, but that doesn’t stop them from trying.

 Jay McDowell, of Pioneer High School in Ann Arbor, Mich. made headlines in November of 2010, when he asked a student to leave the classroom after the student made inappropriate comments about gays. The school district suspended the teacher.

Yeah, you heard that right. The teacher was suspended for making a student leave the classroom because of inappropriate comments.

There is a great message to send to students. We want you to speak up, and tell us you’re being bullied, and then not only will the bully not receive punishment, but we will also punish a teacher,for doing the right thing.

Can you tell me why that makes sense? Take your time. I’ll wait.

Schools say they are doing something about it. Parents, who lost their children to suicide, say it’s not enough.

How do you punish a student when the instant claim is, “I was joking.” The bully’s parents are going to defend their child, saying, "he's not capable of it." 

Oh, if only every child was as perfect as their parents believed they were.  

I completely understand why someone would commit suicide rather than face another day at school. I also know how horrible it is to know someone who committed suicide and wishing there was something you could have done to help them.

According to NBC News, in September of 2011, a school in Buffalo, N.Y. played a song at the homecoming dance, in remembrance of a 14-year-old student who committed suicide. His sister and friends began chanting his name to the beat of the song. The students who tormented the student, literally to death, also joined in the chant.

Only, instead of chanting his name, they chanted, “You’re better off dead!” and “We’re glad you’re dead!” and things like that. There was nothing reported about a punishment to the students.

And this is where schools fail children. You cannot allow this behavior to happen. Where were the teachers? The chaperones? Anyone?

Allowing this behavior to happen, and if you don't interfere, you are allowing it, is what is driving children to take matters into their own hands. Students, as well as teachers need to step up and say something.

You can't say you didn't know about it, because ABC News knows about it. The world knows about it.

I understand bullying is as much a part of life as a lion eating a zebra. It happens, but there is a difference between observing the food chain, and being mean.

Lions will not stop eating zebras, but people can stop being mean to each other. I think we’re smart enough to be able to at least tolerate each other.

You don’t have to like everyone, you don’t have to respect everyone, but you do have to be polite to everyone.

Things I Don't Understand

The world is a confusing place. It's becoming more and more confusing every year. People call it a decline of civilization; I call it annoying. Civilization is not declining, the stupid people are just being louder than the sane ones.

Let's be real for about thirty seconds, shall we?

The world is not going to end on Oct. 21 like it was supposed to back in August, or whatever month it was. The world is not going to end on Dec. 21, 2012.

What I don't understand, is how people can believe it will. It's like Y2K on steroids. If you're that paranoid give me all your possessions, money, and whatever else you won' need when the world ends. I'll keep it safe.

Right, moving on.

Here are the other things I don't understand:

• What happened to food and beverage small sizes? Why do I need an Icee that weighs more than me?
• We are not fat because of the sizing, we are fat because we think it's okay to drink an entire 480 oz Icee in one sitting. 
• Why high school and middle school students are on Facebook. You spent all day with your friends, then you go home and go on the computer to talk with them? Why not just hang out with each other in the same house?
• Why did the Jetsons have a robot maid?
• We have vacuums in the wall to suck up dirt.
• Their meals were a pill. No cooking involved.  
• How do people who never really go outside ever bring dirt into the space house?
• What did Jane Jetson do all day? Donna Reed, and June Cleaver baked. But you never see Jane ever do anything.
• When did 'hahahaha" become a conversation? I'm looking at you high school students.  The conversation goes like this:
• Hahaha I just failed my math test, hahahaha (Someone's name) is a dork hahaha jk hahaha lol
• Someone will reply: hahaha thts funny hahhaha jk rofl
• hahaha i kno hahahahaha
• Then the kid who was called a dork or whatever name comes on and says hahahaha no im not hahahaha
• and it continues, 108 times of someone just typing hahahaha.
• I doubt you really are laughing. 
• If I was an English teacher I would be crying. I wonder if that's how they punctuate their papers?
• Why does summer fly by but the four months of winter last forever?
• NFL wide receiver Donte Stallworth runs over a pedestrian with his car, killing him. NFL wide receiver Plaxico Burress takes a gun into a New York club, and shoots himself in the leg. Literally, and figuratively. Stallworth gets 30 days in jail, Burress gets 2 years.
• I would think killing someone with your car would go for a bit higher than a month. And shooting yourself in the leg? If you're that stupid to put a gun in your pants, and shoot yourself in the leg, no amount of jail time is going to make you smarter.
• Why aren't NFL wide receivers assigned baby sitters?
• Is there a group of men out there dumber than wide receivers?
• What is the goal of the "Occupy Wall Street" protesters?
• Do they have a goal?
• An objective?
• Anything?
• They're just taking up space complaining about.....
• I wonder if they started protesting because they felt left out as protest heat up in the Middle East and northern Africa?
• Why can't a size 8 in Nike be the same size 8 in Adidas?
• Why aren't people nicer on Internet forums?
• I doubt you would call another person a nigger, faggot, dyke, homo, retard, or anything else to their face. I doubt you would threaten them. Unless, you're a jerk.
• Why must people hide behind aliases like jimbeam83728 and go on hateful ramblings about political topics, or recaps of sporting events?
• If you are angry, stay off the computer.
• If you wouldn't say it in real life, face to face, don't say it on the Internet.
• Do Tom and Jerry, Wile E. Coyote and The Roadrunner ever become friends?
• I'm sad people thought cartoon animals with endless supplies of dynamite were thought to be violent.
• I'm sad the cartoons were pulled from TV before we ever find out if they move past their differences.
• Why are people so quick to call others: fag, gay, homo, queer, whatever.
• Why is someone's sexual orientation a put down?
• Four teenagers took their lives last year because of the taunting, bullying, and name calling they received for being gay.
• It's hard enough to have to go through that once, but four times?
• That is a crisis.
• Who came up with the name, "Tater-Tots?"
• Why does no one speak up and tell other people to be nice?
• The holocaust started because a maniac received power and demanded those different from himself, especially those of the Jewish faith, to be killed.
• The holocaust happened because no one stood up and said it was wrong.
• Why are we still not speaking up and saying people are behaving wrongly.
• I thought the peer pressure would stop after high school, college at the latest. My mistake.
• Were T-Rexes angry because his arms were to short to give/receive hugs?
• Maybe they didn't want to eat the other dinosaurs, maybe they just wanted a hug.
• Why did the phrase, "Please refrain from talking," that used to cause your agitator to shut up like he/she ate super glue, no longer work in the real world?
• Could you imagine going up to a politician like Michele Bachmann and tell her to, "please refrain from talking?"
• She would probably just laugh at you.
• If she did listen you would be a hero
• I miss elementary school where that was effective.
• I also miss threatening to tell. What a magical phrase that was.
• Why are pro sports (with the exception of football) seasons so long?
• Why is something called instant when I have to add water and wait three minutes?
• Why do churches teach hate and intolerance instead of love and acceptance?
• The church I was raised in had me going to hell by the time I hit third grade.
• That can really mess with a kid's psyche.
• Who named a baby kangaroo, Joey?
• Why are bathrooms in America referred to as John, but "Lou" in England?
• What am I getting for my birthday?

Off to Neverland!

As an adult you never really grow up, you just learn how to act in public. You learn it's not cool to begin screaming and crying at the table when your burger doesn't have the proper amount of pickles. You also tolerate sharing crayons and will sit in your seat; even if you really want to play tag around the restaurant table.

Some things you just have to do to belong in public.

My friend has a theory that there is an age we never really grow out of. Yes, we grow taller, and improve our vocabulary. We begin paying attention to Wall Street instead of Sesame Street, and our day is not destroyed when someone else eats the last of the graham crackers. But there is an age we will always identify with.

I'm five.

I'd rather watch The Muppets, Sesame Street, and Looney Tunes, than prime time drama shows.

I can't tell you why Democrats and Republicans are fighting or what about, but I can tell you why Tom and Jerry, The Roadrunner and Wile. E. Coyote are having issues.

 When we go to dinner I want crayons and the menu I can color. How often I request the coloring materials depends on who I'm having dinner with.

Eating with friends and their four and two year old children?

CRAYONS!

Eating at a nice restaurant?

Act like I know how to be an adult. (LAME!)

The problem with being five, or a child trapped in an adult body is I often get the small children in trouble.

Most adults who are kicked under the table by a child's legs would request the child to stop. I pull off the child's shoe.

Is the child bopping me in the back? Again, most people would say stop. I throw the child upside down.

The way I try to solve the problem, might be leading to more problems for those around us.

Yes, my husband and the child's parents spend most dinners or outings telling us to knock it off, and trying to put us in timeout.

Oops. Sorry.

I might need to work on being an adult and not getting the child wound up. But let's be honest, it's way more fun to play around then behave. Everyone knows that.

But here's the thing, James M. Barrie created an empire surrounded by the concept of not wanting to grow up. Peter Pan is still finding his way into theatres, books, and Halloween more than a hundred years after his creation.

Who doesn't love the concept of Neverland? No bills, no responsibility, you get to live in a tree house! What person at some point in their life didn't want to do that?

I just want to play. Simple as that, and if finding Neverland allows me to do that. Then you'll find me in Neverland. I know it cannot be found on a map, it needs to be found elsewhere. And I've found it in my inability to grow up.

Life is fun, and it only lasts about 80 to 90 years so why should I spend time stressing about boring stuff like matching socks or a million servings of vegetables?

I understand that there are times when I cannot be the big kid, I have to be a lame adult. I'm thinking to keep myself of being sent to the car during the next dinner I need to find that balance.

The Microsoft Wife, What I've learned

In my last post I went on a nice long rant about the interview question: Tell me about yourself.

That's all fine and dandy, but someone made the point that I'm getting off topic of my blog. I know I started this to share the trials and tribulations of being an adult, and on the occasion enlighten people what it's like to be married to someone that works at one of the most well known companies in the world.

I get off topic, and I use this blog to rant, rave, and hopefully entertain. It's my blog and I can do as I please. And I will.

BUT I do enjoy receiving feedback, so feel free to post comments or do as my friend did and text me.

So after a year of being a Microsoft Wife, this is what I've learned (in no particular order):

• Make sure there is nothing under the stove burner, it will catch fire
• People actually play World of Warcraft and Dungeon and Dragons
• This is not something that is made up for TV or nerd jokes. The games actually exist
• They will make up acronyms to make it sound cooler.
• WOW
• D&D
• It doesn't work
• Just because your husband works at Microsoft does not mean you have built in tech support
• Always hang onto the vacuum filter when you're smacking it against a garbage dumpster
• You will be mocked for wanting anything made by the company 500 miles south of Seattle. It starts with App and ends with le.
• You will have a Zune instead of an iPod
•  They are not the same.
• Your TV will actually be a computer
• Your Xbox will also work as a tuner for TV
• You know what tuners are
• You also know way more about computers than you ever thought possible
• You learn there are TV shows for computer nerds
• You find out you like those TV shows
• IT Crowd
• Big Bang Theory
• Numb3rs (I don't like this show, I count knowing it exists as a win)
• There is a difference between nerds and geeks
• You will try to convince everyone you know Bing is better than Google
• It really is
• Your phone has a longer name than you do
• Maureen Diehl v. Windows Phone Seven
• Abbreviating Windows as Win does not make it sound cooler
• At some point during every dinner you will realize a hamster on a wheel does not power your computer
• It's a very sad realization
• There is more to Microsoft than Word, PowerPoint, and Excel
• Excel is still poopy
• People recognize Excel is poopy but do little to nothing to fix it
• People do not like to hear Excel is poopy when they are on the team to do whatever it is they do
• Ask what people do at Microsoft when you're at a Microsoft event
• This prevents you from making fun of Excel in front of one of its programmers
• You learn computer nerds are terrified of humans and just want you to go away and stop apologizing for making fun of Excel
• Talking will scare computer nerds
• As will:
• Quick movements
• Being a female
• Being within thirty yards of them
• Reaching across them to grab the ketchup
• Being a female
• Interrupting their story about something
• Listening to their story about something
• Being a female
• Telling them Zombies do not exist. Yet
• Telling them World of Warcraft and Dungeons and Dragons are not actual places, and do not exist, and will never exist. Poor guy.
• Being a female
• I'm tired of making a list EVERYTHING SCARES THEM
• Always lock your front door
• Know how to work a key and lock
• Do not use pliers to force a key to lock
• Do not let your husband know you used pliers to force a key in a lock
• Know where the tool box is
• Know where the fire extinguisher is
• Laugh
• Microsoft has all the pop aka soda you can drink
• Everyone in Seattle works for Microsoft, or is somehow connected to Microsoft
• Unless they work for Boeing, Starbucks, or a start up company
• Seattle has fantastic beer
• You will consume a lot of beer when people begin talking about computers
• Always carry your ID
• The nicest people I've met are computer nerds and their spouses

Tell Me About Yourself

Eighty-two years later the top hat wearing monkeys that danced to the Accordion Grinder's music monkeys are still trying to find jobs. The economy collapsed in 1929, and those monkeys are still trying to get their jobs back.

I refuse to be one of those monkeys. Mostly because I can't dance, and my head is to small to wear a top hat.

I am three days away from buying poster board, markers and a fantastic hat and standing on the street corner demanding someone hire me.

 And not as a prostitute.

I will work at Starbucks before I become a street walker.

I've done the job applying thing for several months now. I've gotten pretty good at cranking out resumes, and cover letters. I've emailed, mailed, hand delivered, and filled out more online applications than I can count.

All I need now is the interview. The interview with the question you can always count on. Every single time. You will always be asked this simple question.

Tell me about yourself.

People love to talk about themselves. Listen, and I mean really listen to a conversation and you'll see person A will be telling a story and person B will immediately jump in with an anecdote of something similar happening to them.

You have no problem talking about yourself until you're in an interview. You then realize what a horrible person you really are.

Tell me about yourself.

I can quote Monty Python movies, make cultural references, and keep up with two simultaneous conversations. I have a high source of energy, up for anything, easy going personality. I think Fruit Ninja would be a fantastic game to play with real swords and fruit. I have a blue collar work ethic that built Detroit. I get the job done.

So, tell me about yourself.

I'm twenty-four. I'm a ski bum. I'm a struggling artist who is watching my industry get taken over by computer robots. The robots can write a AP article in twenty seconds, a solid journalist takes thirty minutes. Twenty if it's sports.

I cannot juggle fire. Fire scares me, and I can't juggle, unless you would like me to multi task. I am excellent at working on up to four projects at once.

Tell me about yourself.

I care about the environment, and am pretty sure television programming is getting worse with every season. America does not need seven different types of talent shows, fifteen crime shows, or Donald Trump.

I think ESPN is the worst thing that could happen to sports, and if you're not a blonde female journalist you will not be a sideline reporter. You might be picked up by FOX, but I also think FOX is the worst network in the world; followed closely by FOX News.

I am not a patient person, and I do not believe in being accommodating to people who I feel are going out of their way to be dumb.

What can you tell me about yourself?

I am overly confident, and am a strong independent female. I will scare you but you just have to get over it. I will tell people when I think they are wrong, or when they are not listening. I am a female but I am not stupid. Do not assume I am stupid.

I mispronounce words, and I occasionally stutter. I do not need you to point that out, and yes, I did just mispronounce southern.

Tell me about yourself.

I'm the best damn employee you'll ever have.

So, tell me about yourself.

I'm a 2009 college graduate with a degree in Business Administration and a major in Public Relations. I am well organized, and excel at multi tasking. I can work on up to four projects at once, and will meet the deadline. Every. Single. Time.

I am never late, unless you count being ten minutes early. I pay attention to details and produce quality work. I am social, I like talking to people and learning about them. I also believe that if they take time out of their day to talk to me, then they deserve my fully attention.
 
How could someone not want to hire me?

The Attack of the Boogeyman!

We learn a lot about ourselves in the face of adversity, or near death experiences. And this has been the week of near death experiences.

On Wednesday night about 3 a.m. my sister woke to someone pounding on her door. After ruling out a lost friend of a neighbor, she began to panic as the knocks became louder, a light was flashed into her apartment, and someone clarified her apartment number.

Her phone was in the other room, so she could not call the police until the men left. The men were the police, but that still does not make the story of a 3 a.m. visitor any less scary.

Because we have a healthy sister relationship, if she does something, I want to do it to. However, I did not want this to happen.

This past Saturday Chris had a puzzle competition. I was going to have the apartment to myself.

No problem. I Kissed him goodbye and spent the evening with friends.

It's not that I don't like being alone at night. It's my overactive imagination convinced there is an axe murderer waiting for me on the other side of the shower; and is now lurking behind every corner. I'm the one that forgets to lock my front door or I leave keys in the lock during the day. But when I know Chris is gone for whatever reason, all doors and windows are closed and locked.

My reasoning is Chris and I have a better chance of taking down the crazed serial killer together, than I do on my own.

I'm very safety conscience.

Upon returning my friends' house I threw a movie into my laptop and watched TV in bed. Knowing Meghan's story from a couple nights ago, I brought my phone into bed and placed it under my pillow; before rolling myself into a burrito under four blankets; to ward myself from the cold night air the fan was bringing into the bedroom.

I locked the front door, but kept the deadbolt unlocked so my lovely husband could come in.

At some point I fell asleep, thinking I should have my hockey stick or softball bat in arms reach in case something happened.

What could happen?

I live in one of the safest communities. Please note, I forgot that we also have a high rate of serial killers in Washington.

Something happened. I swear life likes to prove me wrong.

Around 3 that morning, a large person entered the apartment. I slept through it. When the person entered the bedroom, he made the mistake of bumping the bed. The involuntary movement of my foot caused me to wake up in a panic. On a scale of 1-10 I was at a 500.

You might be asking why I didn't hear the bedroom door open. The door was already open. I hate my door closed. Even in college I hated having the door closed. You would think after four years of my door constantly being closed I would be okay with it.

I'm not.

In fact, the reasoning behind the open door is simple. I can hear the perpetrator come into the apartment if the bedroom door is open.

It was a good theory. A horrible practice.

The person was fairly close to the bed. My ring is on my left hand and I can do some pretty serious damage with that sucker. I tried to free my arm from the blankets. I was also kicking wildly, trying to free my legs in order to kick the perpetrator.

I must have looked like a deranged person making a snow angel.

I let out loud, fire alarm sounding, screams. The whole time my brain is screaming at me to stop screaming and start punching. I could not punch because I was wound so tight in my blankets.

Then the perpetrator began yelling. Screaming at me.

Which caused me to panic more. I yelled louder, and began thrashing with new intensity. Please note, all I was fighting were the damn blankets.

Finally, finally I almost free myself. Only to have the perpetrator get closer to me, almost if he was on top of me.

It was beginning to look like the intro to a Law & Order SVU episode. I tried to fight back one last time, about to free my leg from the blankets.

When he yells, "Mo it's me! Mo it's me! It's me Mo! You're okay!"

I stopped screaming in my fire alarm scream, and slowed the flailing, mostly because I was getting more and more tangled in blankets.

Chris looked down at me, looking as panicked as I feel.

"You okay?" He asks gently, still standing by the bed, to ensure its safe for his entry.

I nod, I have tears rolling down my cheeks I'm so relieved and scared. Of course its darker than India Ink and he can't see me. I have to say I'm okay.

Normally during the night I sleep across the entire bed. Taking up way more space than a five foot five inch person should be able to. I normally send Chris to the edge of the bed, where he clings to the side.

This time I clung to the edge. I sought refuge in the hole between the bed and wall. I tried to calm down enough to fall back to sleep.

Sleep didn't happen. When you survive an attack during the night, the last thing you want to do is sleep.

So what did I learn about myself?

Besides that I can function on little sleep the next day?

In a crisis I will try to fight back, even if I am stuck under blankets. This is much better than being the person running around in circles screaming. Or trying to hide under the bed, where we all know monsters live.

I also realized in the aftermath, it's a good thing I was stuck. The possibility of Chris becoming seriously injured if I was able to lay a hand or foot on him was pretty good.

Chris learned that it is best to stand in the doorway and announce himself before entering.

All good things. Except now, I think I will also booby trap the front and bedroom doors before falling asleep.

Battle of the Shower

It's official. My neighbors have confirmed that I am indeed out of control crazy. I'm sure they have been suspecting this for a while now, and I have confirmed all suspicions.

Our walls are pretty thick in our apartment building. We will hear the occasional bass, or a door slam, but for the most part you can't hear anything. Except, when all our windows are open, my neighbors' windows are open and I let out a blood curdling scream.

Seven people shouted out "Are you okay?"

I yelled back "Fine, sorry."

I'm impressed so many people are around at 11:30 in the morning on a weekday. It's nice to know that if something truly serious and horrible happened there is someone to hear my screams.

Ever since I was little I have been convinced some axe murderer is on the other side of the shower curtain. Waiting for me to come out of the shower and kill me. I don't know why I think the shower curtain can protect me; or stop an axe murdering lunatic, but I do. 

The danger is always on the outside of the shower curtain, never in it, until today.

I'm trying to figure out how many battles I can lose and still claim a victory in the war against the SGH injecting spiders.

I turned the water on in the shower, and pulled back the curtain. I like the water insanely hot, and give it a minute or two to warm up. When I moved the curtain there was a very large black furry spider.

Twice in one week is a bit insane. I failed at trying to keep the Hobo Spider's friend (or spouse, or lifetime partner) from visiting. He (or she, but definitely a he) might have been living here since last week. You can read about the previous experience with a spider, ready to eat me, at that link.

Killing spiders is bad luck. Don't believe me? I'll have you know James Henry Trotter's aunts killed a spider; and three days later a very large peach bowled them right over. They were dead from being squished by my least favorite fruit. If it can happen in a book, it can happen in real life. Almost definitely.

I am a strong independent woman. I can kill a spider. Maybe.

I know spiders don't like water so I chased it with water from the nozzle. Keeping a constant water stream on it. I figured it would only take a couple seconds for him to die.

WRONG! Oh, so very wrong.

I'm pretty sure the water made him stronger. And bigger. Maybe also a tad hairier. He began sprinting. All eight legs moving faster than Usian Bolt could dream of moving.

Okay, drowning the mega spider is not working. He is about one straight line from leaping out of the tub and jumping on my face. My shirt and shorts are also soaked from me playing with the water.

I need a better plan.

I have a couple friends from college who moved to California after graduation. Most of them live in the desert where large spiders and other creepy crawlies have invaded their homes.

They must know what to do. I quickly remembered they do not.

My one friend placed a large sand bucket over the spider and piled several books onto the bucket to keep the spider from wandering away. She left it there for five days before someone would kill it. That would work, except I can't place a bucket and books over a spider in the bath tub. I'm also not letting him stay here for five days.

My other friend refused to answer the phone.

Electrocuting the bad boy seems like the only solution. Except I have no way of zapping him. We do not live in Alabama or Mississippi where large bug zappers are needed every three feet. Even if I could get my hands on something that would electrocute the giant monster, there is a good possibility I would electrocute myself.

Besides, water and electricity do not mix. I did, however, think of filling up the tub with water, turning on my hair dryer and tossing it in. Mythbusters said it would not work.

I am seriously running out of options.

I contemplated calling my husband. But what am I going to say? Hi, uhh, there is a very large spider in the shower.

That would be right up there with calling my parents to say I was chased by a skunk in the middle of the afternoon. Eight years later I am still trying to live that down.

I know how insane it would be to call Chris at work to inform him of a spider. That falls under the category of waste of phone call. And what am I going to ask him to do? Leave work to take care of a tarantula's grandfather?

That is so beyond ridiculous, the Kardashians wouldn't even contemplate it. Calling your husband at work to take care of a spider? 1950 called, and wants their stereotypical female back.

Poison! I can use poison!

Right, well I'm not an evil mastermind genius. I don't have poison lying around. I've seen what happens when you mess up poisons. Instead of killing someone you turn him into a llama. And as cool as a llama would be, I don't want one in the shower. "Emperor's New Groove" anyone?

I do however, have cleaning products. One of the luxuries of living in the northwest is you have ten different types of bleach and other cleaners to fight the mold and mildew.

The spider has stopped trying to run from the water, and is hanging out close to the drain. There is no way he could fit down there.

Having hair stuck in the drain is gross enough, could you imagine a large spider? So poisoning him is not going to work.

I fail at being an evil mastermind.

After looking at the problem in as logical manner as I can; and keeping an eye on it, to ensure it did not wander to another part of the apartment. I decided the only thing I could do is flush it. But how to get the spider from the bathtub to the toilet without touching it?

DUSTPAN!

Taking an envelope and a dustpan, I finally got the adventurous spider onto it. I quickly moved to the toilet. After some coercing, the spider made its escape into the toilet, where it can swim.

Hobo Spiders swim! This one, in particular, swam very well.

I quickly flushed the toilet and made sure the spider made it down and out. To make sure it died I flushed three more times; in case he was holding firm to the side of a pipe or something.

Now all I have to watch out for is a very large peach rolling through Seattle, ready to stomp me dead.

Writing, Why I do it.

The first thing you learn about in life? Disappointment.

Disappointment is inevitable. It begins when your best friend is not home when you want to play. The toy in the cereal box is lame or your sibling got it first. The claw game took all your quarters, and you have nothing to show for it. The guy (or girl) you had a crush on doesn't like you, and the PF Flyers do not make you run faster or jump higher. You don't get into the college you wanted, you didn't get the job you hoped for, and your sports team just lost.

It stings more when that person is there to rub it in.

We all know that person. That person is the one that makes fun of your team for losing, or running around the arcade with the very awesome prize from the claw machine. It's that person who can run faster and jump higher when wearing PF Flyers. It's also the person that takes joy in your failures. Or will constantly complain about something.

Life is full of that person.

I had a teacher who was that person. I used to be friends with that person. Once in high school, and because I did not learn my lesson the first time, also in college. In the real world, that person is everywhere. It can be a coworker, a neighbor, anyone. I'm lucky enough that I, currently, do not have that person in my life. However, I hear their voices, smirking at my most recent failures.

These are the people I can't wait to rub their noses in my success. That's so beyond unhealthy.

So how to handle the failures of life?

I'm not an expert in this. I am like the worst person in the world at handling disappointment. I know I am trying to break into a field where disappointment is at every turn, and success is basically non-existent. So why am I doing this to myself? Why set myself up for disappointment?

I'm starting to think I enjoy it. I have a shoe box filled with letters basically telling me I am the worst writer to walk the planet. I argue the agents did not read Stephanie Meyer who brought us Tw(I can't bring myself to write the series name in my blog).

All joking aside, it's not easy to be a writer. On any given day you will find me slaving away at my computer; fighting with sentences, words, punctuation, and the English language. All for it to end with a letter telling me I'm not what they're looking for. Those are the nicely phrased ones. These letters have been dubbed the "You suck letters."

With every rejection there is that person asking if I have a job, asking why I even want to be a writer, since it seems soooo horrible. (Words with extended vowels are so in right now.)  

It is horrible. But it's also this thing I love to do. I have stories to tell. I hear voices in my head of characters. My husband thinks I'm nuts, because I've answered them. I also make some weird hand or head gesture, as I hold a conversation in my head between two or three people I do not know.

Apparently, this is a common occurrence with writers. Stephen King has admitted it.I was really hoping more stable authors had revealed this. Luckily, others have.

There is a story that I need to tell, and I will tell it.

It may not be the healthiest thing in the world, setting yourself up for disappointment. It messes with you.

On some days I do think I'm the world's worst writer. Other days, I am convinced I'm on my way to a Pulitzer. I'm apparently as moody and crazy as some well established authors. It's nice to know I'll have good company on the crazy train.

So why do I do it? I guess it's because there is nothing else I would rather do.

How to Identify and Kill Spiders

I do not have arachnophobia, I know this because I can see a spider in the same room, and not want to run out of it screaming.

This does not mean that I like spiders or am enthusiastic about killing spiders, especially the spiders of the northwest, who I am pretty sure belong to a gym, and take steroids or SGH (spider growth hormones).

Daddy Long Legs, and the small spiders in the Midwest I'm fine with. So fine with them that killing them with a Kleenex is not enough to make me want to gag.

Insert the SGH doping spiders of the northwest that build webs that extent the length of our patio, can be seen from across the street, and leave bites that last for up to a month, as evidenced by my friend's leg.

The spiders out here, cannot be killed with a wimpy three ply Kleenex. Oh, no. Out here, shoes have a hard time destroying the spiders that have invaded my apartment.

On Saturday night, Chris and I were hanging out in the living room after we got home from a friend's house. I was lying on the futon, when a large moving object caught my eye. I, living up to every stereotype of a female seeing a spider, screamed.

Chris looked over at me, trying to figure out what I could possibly be screaming about at 1 a.m.

"There is a giant spider under your chair," I told him.

He looked on the floor, and agreed that it was a very large spider. Probably the size of my palm, and weighing in at a zillion ounces, he stared me down with his beady eyes.

Chris got up to kill it, knowing that this spider's size exceeded the maximum spider size I am willing to feel squish in my hand.

I offered up one of my shoes to kill the bad boy, and Chris gratefully excepted. You know the spider is large when Chris agrees to using a shoe to kill it.

Three whacks, that's right. Three whacks with a shoe before the spider finally succumbed to its fate.

There is only one type of poisonous spider in Washington, that scientists are aware of, and it's located east of the mountains. 

However, the Hobo spider is alive and well in the Seattle area. Actually, our mostly cool wet climate is perfect for these guys to grow to epic proportions!

Hobo spiders are not poisonous, but if they bite you, you will itch, and you will have marks that looks like a vampire came after you. I know vampires are very in right now, and the bites will do wonders for your social life, especially if you give the fake vampire a sexy name, and say he has a sixteen pack.

So how to deal with this new breed of spider that is almost as large as the Arizona, Nevada tarantulas? I would say move to a region without giant spiders, but that's a tad overboard.

So I am now researching the Hobo Spider.

That is the spider that decided to visit us. That is the spider I am now convinced is living under the bed, waiting for me to sleep so it can crawl into my mouth and become one of those mythical eight spiders I will swallow this year. (Insert shiver)

When I was little I was told having a glass of water by the bed attracts spiders. Chris looked at me like I was nuts when I told him this many years ago. It's in fact not water that attracts spiders, but their natural curiosity.

And a warm room, with comfy carpet, and the flat screen TV probably also plays a part in luring the spider into the house.

So how do I keep this guy's friend from visiting? Apparently, lemon juice. I don't know if this will work, and I don't want to attract ants, so I might just take the wait and see approach.

Until then, I am armed with shoes, bats, and a reaching stick, so I can kill the giant from across the room.



Thoughts and Remembrance

In two days the calender will read September 11, 2011. It is a Sunday, and the weather forecast is 90 and sunny, that could turn into a beach day. It is the first full day of the NFL. And yes, it is also the ten year anniversary of September 11, 2001, just in case you live under a rock and didn't know.

This is the most difficult blog post to date. I've been trying to write this since 9 a.m. and it's now nearly noon and I'm nowhere close to being done.

 I've ranted and raved, I've called for action, I've demanded we all get on with our lives, I'm pretty sure I insulted everyone at one point. I've been on a deleting rampage, as I've sat here trying to make it sound like I'm not a lunatic. I've watched more 9/11 tributes on YouTube than is probably healthy. And I've sat here trying to figure out why I'm writing about Sept. 11.

And I've come to this conclusion: I have to. I apologize if this isn't as sensitive, or whatever else you were hoping for, but I'm doing the best I can. I'm only a writer.

September, the month when trees begin thinking of changing colors, and summer is still hanging around. Children and teachers are going back to school. College football and the NFL are beginning. Americans are happy when they have their football.

You begin thinking of apple orchards and cider mills. It's September! One of the nicest months of the year! Sunny and warm but with no mud like April, and not sweltering like July. It's not cold like October or November.

You take one last vacation, or go out on the boat one last time. You have barbecues, and bonfires, and try to catch the last lightning bug of the season.

Sept. 11 is a date. Prior to the year 2001, it was no different than Sept. 10 or Sept. 15. Except, now, like December 7, 1941 it has meaning.

We're coming up on the 70th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor, December 7, a date that will live in infamy. While, President Bush's speech didn't give us a powerful line like Roosevelt's did, Sept 11, or 9/11, will also live in infamy.

Like my grandparents can tell you where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed I can tell you where I was when the announcement came that planes flew into the World Trade Center. I was fourteen, and in my second or third week of high school.

We were in the gym for an assembly, and then reported back to our second hour classes to kill time before our next period. I had gym, so we went across the hall to the room the wrestlers used for practice. The announcement came over the PA system that planes had crashed into the WTC.

Full disclosure, I didn't know what the WTC was. Yes, I knew of the towers, I just didn't know what they were called. I blame being a self centered teenager from the Midwest.

Unlike my grandparents who were given the news about Pearl Harbor from the radio. I was three blocks away, thanks to CNN, FOX News, NBC, ABC, and the Internet. Watching and rewatching the planes, the smoke, the people screaming, the fire, and feeling sick.

For hours we were glued to TVs.  From the time we heard the news until we went to bed we sat there silently, watching the news in disbelief as the towers fell, expecting the sky to fall with them. This did not have to be described, this was not a prepared news segment, with a script like in 1941.

We saw the smoke rise out of rubble at the Pentagon, and listened to reporters talk about the heroes in flight 93 who took down the terrorists, and themselves, in a field in Pennsylvania.

We heard the screams of people on New York streets, and the people covered in ash, dust, and dirt running for their lives. We saw people being carried out of rubble, jumping out of buildings, and firefighters running in. We watched as the towers fell, leaving the New York skyline, and ourselves empty.

We weren't the only country to feel the effects of the Attacks. More than 80 countries had someone working in the towers. Countries from around the world held memorial services for the victims. The guards at Buckingham Palace played our national anthem. A song about us defeating the them!

 Italy, Russia, Germany, Japan, countries we fought against 60 years before, reached out to help. Reached out with memorials of their own. For people they never met, for a city that had been shaken past its core, for a country who couldn't come to grips with it just yet.

It's just an example of how shaken the world was after the attacks. How we just wanted to grasp onto someone to make sure we were sill here.

If I were to make a list of everything we, as a nation, and as humanity, lost that day it would stretch from here to eternity. Believe me, I've tried.

Innocence was lost on 9/11, and unfortunately it wasn't the only thing we lost. I think we lost our sense of safety, our invincibility, our selfishness, the thoughts and ideas that we were better than our neighbor. We lost loved ones. I think we lost the inability to care because somebody's tragedy didn't effect us. Or their pain wasn't as great as our own.

We banned together, holding each other's hands during seventh inning stretches, while we sang God Bless America. We wrapped ourselves in our flag, and waved it from every building, light pole, balcony, and news stand we could find.

We were pissed and we were going to fight!

In the last ten years, the fight has left us. The flag is now a symbol of despair, rather than hope. People are out of jobs, prices are rising, houses are being foreclosed on, oil is being fought over, and our politicians are beyond a hot mess.

I feel like in the ten years since the WTC has fallen we're still focusing on what we lost. Our lost innocence, our loss of security, our loss in the global market, our loss of jobs. News segments are focusing on children who lost a parent.

I think the news is truly trying to depress us, and doing a hell of a job.

What about talking about what we gained? I know the wounds are deep, and I know we're going to be scarred for a long time. And it might take us forty years until we can think about Sept. 11 as a significant day in September without wanting to cry, or have three week news marathons about the event.

Or maybe, just maybe, we won't have to wait that long. Maybe, we can think of what we gained from the terrorist attacks, and just stop. Stop blaming, and hating, and thinking you are more important than everything and everyone else.

We're left to hold memory of those who did not survive, and it's not because we need to accomplish anything great. It's so we can accomplish what we started ten years ago. Being nice to each other, and fighting for what we want. Fighting for a country we can be proud of. Not just in war, but here at home.

I feel like we've been lying down, waiting for people to tell us it's okay to live again. It's okay to start living again, scars and all.