Tag Archives: Moments of self-reflection

Meanwhile, At The Restaurant: No, It’s To-Go

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The other night, George and I were out at a local restaurant. A family of four came in; Mom, Dad, two little boys who, if I had to guess, were like 4 and 6. It was kind of late-ish for kids to be out eating (it had to be at least 8:00) so the boys were hungry and cranky. Dad was an impatient manly-man, so when the lone waiter working the entire front of the restaurant and seating new diners during this busy night didn’t attend to them in the first minute of them standing there, Dad took matters into his own hands. And sat his family down at the table next to us. Yay.

So they order, and the kids’ food comes out, and then Dad’s food comes out, but Mom’s is delayed because the kitchen was backed up. Ah, well, such is life, right? So the couple will talk and take care of the kids while they wait for Mom’s food, right? And if Dad were so hungry he had to eschew manners and eat immediately, then maybe he’d offer Mom a little bit from his plate so she could nibble too while waiting, right?  Yeah.  Only no.  Instead, Dad proceeded to pull out his goddamned phone and Facebook (or whatever) while he ate. Ignoring his entire family. Ignoring the wife who wasn’t eating yet. Leaving her to contend with two tired, squirrelly kids on her own. While he was sitting right there next to them all. And when her meal came…well, words fail. It looked a little something like this.

The only thing I've exaggerated here is the size of his brow.

The only thing I’ve exaggerated here is the size of his brow.

(Remember, WordPress screwed f*ed us with their photo editing changes, so there is no “open in new window” option.)

That’s right. HE FACEBOOKED THROUGH HIS OWN MEAL, AND THEN WOULDN’T LET HIS WIFE EAT HER DINNER.

And for the record, when the one little boy knocked his water glass over and spilled most of it into his mother, guess who got up to help her clean up, get fresh napkins for the table, and alerted the waiter there was a spill?  Most people would think, oh, it was the other adult at the table, because that’s what responsible, thinking, caring adults in a relationship do for one another, right?

BZZT. Wrong. It was me. I helped her. I helped get her table cleaned. ME.

Sigh. I don’t even know what else to say about this except: If you’re this guy and you’re reading this, then understand that I only have the best of intentions when I tell you, you are a douchebag. Only because I hope you recognize it to be true, and want to change your douchebaggy ways. Your kids deserve a father who’s present and engaged, not some…douchebag, really, it’s the word that fits…who trawls his phone during dinner, exhibits no sign of joy or interest in his own family, who shows such…you know, it’s not even disrespect, it’s total douchey disregard, for his wife. I don’t know if getting your wife’s food to go shows you’re the control freak type of douchebag, or if you’re the sort of douchebag who is douchebaggy thanks to a wretched cavern in your soul filled with cluelessness but dude, when a stranger at the next table and the waiter have more concern for your wife’s well being than you do?

You’re doing it wrong.

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So…this happened.

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While wasting time on Facebook (which I do way, waaaay too much, and I really need to reign that in, but I digress), I reposted a picture from George Takei‘s FB feed. Kind of funny, kind of saucy, totally double-entendre *tee hee*-ish.  And then my mom commented on said picture. See below.

*tee hee*

*tee hee*

So ha ha and it’s kind of cute and funny, because it looks like my mom doesn’t get the minxy kind of sexyjoking.  Right?  Right?  Oh, naive mother of mine.  Of course, she has had five kids, but who wants to let reality and logic get in the way of personal narrative?

Then I got this text from my mother.

mom rodwork text

D’oh!

o.0

Bow-chicka-bow-WHOA!!!

*cough cough*

Thanks, Mom. Is that my own comedy petard you’ve just hoist me in?

I’m going to be laughing about this for weeks.

The Walking Dead, S4 Ep 9: After

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WILL THERE BE SPOILERS? OF COURSE THERE WILL BE SPOILERS! I’M TALKING ABOUT A TV SHOW. CONSIDER YOURSELF ALERTED.

Welcome back, The Walking DeadOh, how I have missed you.  It’s hard to get through the week without a fix of issues-laden zombie mayhem. Om nom nom. Oh, the (lack of) humanity.

Season 4, Episode 9 of The Walking Dead picks up about five minutes after where the mid-season finale left off. Or maybe more like an hour later.  Or whatever, it was soon enough for the zombies to still be shambling anew into the smoking hull that was the prison refuge, and long enough for all the principal characters to have scattered but good.

This is a focus episode that examines the relationship between Rick and Carl, and explains Michonne‘s back story, which flows into her present timeline.

So. First up: Rick & Carl.

And don’t mind the quality of the pictures. It’s…a long story. Anyway.

Carl? Buddy? Son? Hey pal. Buddy? Hey. Carl? Carl?

Carl? Buddy? Son? Hey pal. Buddy? Hey. Carl? Carl?

OK, Carl. I know you’re a child warrior/surly teen who has come of age in the nightmarish hellscape of a zombie apocalypse. But fo’ real, kid. Your dad has a chest full of broken ribs and was strangled to within seconds of his life…could you at least wait up for him? He’s not quite the walking dead (though he’s got that dreadful wheeze down), but he’s certainly the walking barely-alive. So, blah blah, they find a house and hole up in it, blah blah, Carl is cranky and doesn’t want to do what his dad tells him to do, blah blah he has a laundry list of resentments because shit has once again magnificently fallen apart and Rick is always to blame. (I will grant him new rage for the possible-death of baby Judith, about whose fate we are none the wiser. Sadly, Michonne doesn’t have her, so boo! I was wrong about that.) He seems to keep forgetting that the Governor showed up with a tank, took hostages and unleashed a killing spree unto their makeshift family and really, Carrrr-rul (dialect coach: get on that, will you?), it’s hard to point the finger at anyone else except the tankmaster.

But no, go ahead. Blame your dad. It’s nice to know parent issues don’t go out of style.

I kind of get where he’s coming from. Carl finds a teen boy’s room that’s got a stack of video games still in it, and it’s totally the kind of kid he could have been in a world less mad. That becomes metaphoric to his conduct. He doesn’t scavenge successfully, he “wins”. He doesn’t recklessly dispatch zombies; he “wins”. It sounds a little like he’s had some of Charlie Sheen’s tiger blood and a little like he doesn’t get that if he dies in this game, there’s no reset button BUT, more to the point, is he’s totally being an angry teen in the middle of this crazy-ass world.

#winning

#winning
If you can’t tell, it reads: Walker inside. Got my shoe, didn’t get me.

Which is oddly charming. I just wish he wasn’t acting out against Rick when he’s so clearly incapacitated. It makes Carl seem petulant and a little power-grabby (sure, fight your dad when he can’t fight back). At first. Then Carl thinks Rick is dead and reanimating, and suddenly Carl is a little boy again.  A little boy who’s already iced his mom so she didn’t turn zombie. What’s to stop him from taking out the grasping, zombie-sound-emitting Rick, with whom he’s already angry, against whose defenseless, sleeping (possibly dying) form he’s unleashed a barrage of snarling teener rage?

Am I the only one who's getting a little Michelangelo "The Creation of Adam" here?

Am I the only one who’s getting a little Michelangelo “The Creation of Adam” here?

But he can’t do it alone, doesn’t want to do it alone, isn’t ready to be the Alpha dog.  Finally, Carl faces that he’s afraid of being all by himself. It’s a legitimate fear, I don’t know if I could do it either. Afterwards?  They sit down and eat cereal together, because when Carl and Rick bond, they eat things. Which is also metaphoric, I suppose, but at least the things they eat aren’t people.

Now. Michonne.

Since her introduction, Michonne has been a katana-twirling killing machine. Kind of a loner because really, who wants to hang out in the woods with a woman with two armless, mouthless zombies chained to her?

It will create a smell buffer, they said.

It will create a smell buffer, they said.
Image from sciencefiction.com

Alone again and in the woods, Michonne makes a new set of zombie “pets” (that’s what they call them and I hate it, but still) and starts…what…?

On that road to nowhere.

On that road to nowhere.

Aimlessly wandering. Inside a hissing, gurgling pack of zombies. Her placid sort of resignation to a lifeless fate marked by empty wandering kind of reminded me a little bit of the meat grinder scene from Pink Floyd’s ThWall.  

Forward to about 4:10 of the video if you just want to see what I’m talking about.

Michonne was walking, and not dead, but certainly not engaging in anything meaningful or humanity-building. While she was walking with the zombies I kept wondering when and how she would stop. How do you stop to…pee? or eat?…without giving yourself away? And you know she wasn’t always the whirling-blade-of-doom survivalist we’ve come to know and love. In this episode, we find out that her katana-wielding ways came about only as a result of the zombie apocalypse. We already suspected she’d had a past that wasn’t quite as intensely martial-arty.  What we didn’t know was that she had a past that was…well…straight-on arty-arty.

Hey Grumpy Gus! Cheer up; it’s brie!

In a flashback dream-fugue sequence we see Michonne hanging out at home with her boyfriend, his friend, and her baby for an afternoon of fruit and cheese and discussions about what makes art, art. Which then segues into the boyfriend and friend debating whether or not to leave their camp, not understanding their new roles in their unfamiliar world while she discovered her facility with a sword. Which then segues into them, armless, ready to be made into the first set of zombie pets we had seen her chained to, and the baby? Sigh. Out of the picture.

And so she is walking. And walking. And maybe not thinking. And walking. Because what else has she got to live for? Until she sees her twinsie zombie.

20140210_121451

-Well, I am just beside myself…uh…
-Hello, self.

This triggers in Michonne a “George Bailey goes a-killin’, I want to live again” moment, wherein she becomes a dervish of woe, destroys the zombie pack she was losing herself into (because let’s face it, it would only be a matter of time until she let her guard down and then? Om nom nom and see you on the undead side) and hits the road in search of her companions, who can’t be that far since almost everyone is on foot.

May God have mercy on my enemies, for I shall not.

May God have mercy on my enemies, for I shall not.

Bonus: She finds Rick & Carl eating cereal. YAY! We take our happy endings where we can find them, in the postapocalyptic zombie world.

Double-bonus: Next week we see what’s happening with Daryl. He’s in the woods with Whatsherface, the blonde and uninteresting chick who’s Hershel’s other daughter.  Beth?  Yeah. That’s it.

And this song’s a dedication going out to the lovers out there…Michonne and Rick, so glad to see you back together again.

Peaches and Herb, “Reunited”. Take notes if this is new to you. There will be a quiz.

See you all next week!

Life Hack: How to Gym

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As 2013 winds down (thank GOD) and New Year’s resolutions come into focus, there will be plenty of people venturing into previously uncharted self-improvement territory.  They’ll sign up for that French class, swear to read books more and Facebook less, scrupulously count calories, chew countless wads of Nicorette.  They will also swell the ranks of gym memberships.  For the first three weeks of the year, my Zumba class is going to be packed, and time on the treadmill or arc trainer will be at a premium.  And then?  Newbies will start to fade away, because gymming it hasn’t worked out as they expected.  I’ve seen it happen the last two years.  I’ve done it myself.

This is all true.

This is all true.
Image from loldamn.com

Working a lifestyle change into a daily schedule is hard enough in the best of times, never mind a change that thrusts you into a new environment where your vulnerability is at its peak. You’re publicly declaring that you’re flawed and want a change, and you don’t know the people around you/how to Zumba (or lift, or Step, or what the hell is an arc trainer?)/your own limits.  And you’re around a bunch of people who seem like they have it together within this strange new world.  What’s not to be scared of?  What’s not to find intimidating?

I get it, I do.  I’ve got a lifetime of avoided workouts under my belt and a bunch of unhealthy living I’ve had to undo.  Thus, I am here to help the intimidated, the uninitiated, the lost-at-sea-in-the-weight-room.  Here are five tips to help you gym it like a veteran and approach this sweaty domain with a more positive, less “I am an athletic freak show”  perspective.

1) You aren’t going to be able to do everything the instructors (and gym/class regulars) do, perfectly, from the start, every time.  And THAT IS OKAY.  It’s more than okay; it’s expected.  That’s why they have instructors, see?  We weren’t born downloading Zumba routines into our brains from the Matrix, and we didn’t spring fully-formed to life in the gym with the innate knowledge of a clean-and-press.  These things take time and practice.  I’ve been doing Zumba for two years so I can rock it with the best of them, but in Step class?  I am the low impact derp.  But I’m getting better every time, and that’s what matters.

Fact.

I know this all too well.
Image taken from pinterest.com

And speaking of Step class…

2) Try everything.  You may think you just want a place with weight machines and a treadmill, and then find you love kickboxing.  Mixing up your workouts prevents boredom, which is an attendance killer.  Plus, different workouts push you in different ways.  I thought I would just want Zumba and for the longest time gave the hand to Step classes.  I broke my ankle a few years ago, I’m a little bit clumsy on the best of days, I was afraid of stepping and jumping and falling and re-injuring.  Then I got talked into Step classes.  Now I look forward to them, and regularly test my limits.  That doesn’t happen all the time; Body Attack still makes me want to stab myself in the face.  But I feel that way about it because I don’t like it, not because I’m afraid of it and haven’t tried it.

p.s. I did fall once, in Step.  And I survived.  I do Body Attack if it’s the workout that fits into my schedule.  And I survive.  Lesson = learned.

3) DO. NOT. ROLL. YOUR. EYES. AT. ME.  Don’t roll your eyes at me, don’t roll your eyes at the instructor, don’t roll your eyes when staring down a difficult exercise.  The instructor’s job is to challenge you.  Your job is to work toward that challenge.  If you don’t like it, go home.  Do NOT try to make me your eyeball-rolling ally, because it will not happen, newbie.  I’m there to work my ass off, not be your sister in snark and give you tacit permission to opt out.  Now go squat.  SQUAAAAAAAAAAT.

Also, don’t talk over the instructor when they’re trying to tell the class something.  They usually have information you’ll want, so listen to their tips on correct form or how to adapt an exercise for skill level, and really?  Do you have to text while you’re on the bike in Spin class?  Really?

If you feel like you’re not getting anything out of going to the gym, ask yourself how much you’re putting in, in the first place.

But you've got to take part to get there.

You’ve got to do your part to get there.
Image from wineandbutter.com

4) Joining a gym with a friend is good.  Making that friend the only thing that gets you to the gym?  Not so much.

Here’s the story: I joined my gym because my friend Amy goes there, and yes, it’s easier to walk into a gym with a buddy at your side than without. But if you walk through those doors solo, nobody’s going to hit you with a stick, I promise.  As life goes, Amy and I have wildly different priorities.  Example: she has kids.  I don’t.  Sometimes, she’s got to go to tae kwon do or Girl Scouts or a birthday party and can’t make it to the gym.  So…if she can’t go, does that mean I shouldn’t go?

The answer, for those playing at home, is no.  Of course not.  When our workouts can coincide, that’s great and we have fun, but when they don’t, I still want to feel great and have fun.  Zumba is ON!  Amy doesn’t have to walk around in my skin, feel my sluggishness when I’ve not gotten exercise, deal with my couch potato bloat.  I do.  And as much as I like having a gym buddy, it’s still my responsibility to myself that should matter most.  Have I relied on friends to get me to the gym when I’m feeling unmotivated?  Absolutely.  But the person that’s gotten me to the gym on a regular basis?  Is me.  It’s what happens when you make yourself a priority instead of a dependent variable.

5) Stop.  Worrying.  About what other people think of you.  About what you think other people think of you.  You know what the other people in your gym think about?  They’re thinking about their own workout, about how their lungs are in their throats or how their arms are reaching that fatigue point.  They’re thinking about their next water break or their form.  What they’re not thinking about?  Is you.  Unless they’re the people who are worrying about what you think of them.  More often than not, we get in our own way.  Stop looking around.  Don’t look at me, don’t look at the guy next to you, and for the love of all that is holy don’t look at the clock.  Look at the person in the front of the room, whose job is to help you.  Let your ego go and be in the moment.  You’ll be fine.

The Oatmeal can explain it all for you.  (Click here for the full comic (this is just the first panel), and you should because it’s worth it.)

the oatmeal gym

Notice, it’s all what we imagine, then impose upon ourselves.
Image from theoatmeal.com

Happy gymming!  See you ’round the arc trainer!

Bye, Honda Fit. Thanks for everything!

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It was one of those moments, you know?  We were driving, the light was weird, the lanes kept getting lost in and out of the mist from the salty water pulled up from the blacktop and the intense bright glare of the sun.  Southbound, I-95, just past Washington DC.

Truth is, we didn’t stand a chance.

So, one person in the far left–who had lost sight of their lane in the glare–realized they had drifted out of their lane and were about to hit the construction sand barrels in the left median. They, of course, jerked their car back into the left lane.  Which caused the truck next to them to jerk into the middle lane.  Which caused me to have to swerve…and I have no idea what happened, but I lost control of the car.

Long story short, we hit the right concrete abutment, spun back into traffic, did a complete 360 and hit the same abutment again.  I do remember yanking the wheel to the right after the first hit on the right, because the last thing I wanted was a hit by oncoming traffic.  We came back to rest against that same concrete divider.

So here’s the deal: We walked away from this.  George and I opened our doors and walked away a little dented but generally, just fine.  And while we both think this sucked and wish this hadn’t happened, we also both acknowledge that it could have been much, much worse.  So we search for lessons among the wreckage.  Here’s what I’ve got so far:

We are OK, because of things like seat belts and air bags.  Thanks for doing your jobs, good people of the Honda Safety Division!

My mother was supposed to be in the car with us, then for a few different reasons decided she couldn’t make the trip.  I was mad at first, now I’m incredibly relieved she wasn’t with us because no older lady needs to spin 360s in the right lane on I-95 southbound.  I need to remember to accept situations as they are, not as I want them to be.

Regardless of what is or is not as I want things to be, 2013 can still go fuck itself.

We were helped by a string of incredibly nice people, some of whom didn’t have to help, and all of whom didn’t have to be so nice.  Faith in humanity = shored up again.

This was one of those times when it became all to clear to me that we balance on the edge of a string.  And it doesn’t take all that much to get flung off the string or have is snap beneath you and send you hurtling into the abyss.  I’ve had a few other events like this in my life (the night a heater blew in an old apartment, the day I nearly got pulled out to sea in an undertow) and…while I don’t like to contemplate the abyss, I think it’s important to recognize those times that bring you perilously close to the edge, where you’re walking away under your own power simply because of a fingernail’s breadth worth of luck.

And so.  George and I are in the market for a new car, and it sucks but it’s OK.  I loved that car, but it was a car, and it sucks that it’s gone but it’s OK.  I’ll be wearing suspiciously high-collared shirts until the abrasion from the seat belt fades, and that’s OK.  And we’ll drive off in the morning sun in a rented minivan, which–trust me–is not my dream car.  But it’s OK.

Now go hug someone.  XOXO

2013 Thus Far

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I’m going to be blunt here.

2013 can go fuck itself.

I’m about to head back to the homeland to go to the funeral of an uncle.  Really?  George’s dad, then my dad, and now my uncle?  And there’s been other stuff that’s sucked, though none of it compares to the loss of such important members of my family.  If I develop mysterious sores, I’m going to wonder when I was nominated to be the next Job.  Though lots of friends have suffered tragic losses this year, so…on the behalf of everyone I know who’s had a shitty go of things, 2013…I think I’ve made it clear how I feel about you.  You’ve got some ‘splaining to do.  And really, it’s not me, it’s all you.  I own none of it.

Agggh.  The next few days are gonna suck.

I miss hearing from you all, I’ll be back soon.

Until then, here are a few pictures I’ve taken within the calendar year 2013, in an effort to remind myself and others that maybe 2013 doesn’t deserve to be completely wiped from our memories.  I don’t want to put up gloomy pics, because I’m trying to angle for instant karma points.  Oh, look (says an otherwise cruel and unfeeling universe), she put up a picture of a lacy butterfly!  Let’s not kill any more of her loved ones until, at the very least, the end of the year.

So. With no further ado and in no particular order…

Black swallowtail butterfly, my back yard. (Did you think I was kidding about posting a butterfly pic?)

Black swallowtail butterfly, my back yard. (Did you think I was kidding about posting a butterfly pic?)  My back yard, summer 2013.

A day spent at Knoebel's with my brother, sis-in-law and the kiddos. July 2013.

A day spent at Knoebel’s with my brother, sis-in-law and the kiddos.
July 2013.

Railroad tracks in autumn.  Sigh.

Railroad tracks in autumn. Sigh.
Lewisburg, September 2013.

This guy.

This guy.
Artscape, Baltimore, July 2013.

John & Molly's wedding. Lutsen, MN, July 2013.

John & Molly’s wedding.
Lutsen, MN, July 2013

And for good measure, here’s a video of an otter juggling a rock.  I didn’t take the video, but I love it all the same.

I (sincerely, truly) hope your year is better than mine.  Enjoy!

Scenes from the Rail Trail: Sept. 25 2013

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We try to keep things groovy here in our lovely little ‘burg.  We have a great single-screen, lovingly restored, art deco movie house and the local filmmakers who have used said movie house (pre-restoration) as a set in their film.  We have top-notch jazz.  We have a highly competitive liberal arts university which brings us all manner of academics, either as professors or guest speakers.  This often makes for surprisingly interesting conversations when you’re out on the town.  And we have the Buffalo Valley Rail Trail.

Thanks to a joint effort between the Lewisburg Area Recreation Authority (LARA), Union County, Pennsylvania Department of Conservation and Natural Resources and the Federal Highway Department, a long-unused railway line was acquired, the rails were repurposed and the ground was paved and/or laid out with packed gravel.  The rail trail parallels Route 45, which is our major east-west corridor, and is a 9.2 mile, mostly flat-ish path through farmland and rolling hills.

It’s purty.

And, the business I’ve started doing a part time writing gig at is just off the trail.

That’s right.  I’ve become the granola girl who bicycle-commutes to work.

I’m sure that soon I’ll start talking more about riding, and about how I’ve been giving an exorbitant amount of thought lately to the change I’ve experienced in my relationship to fitness (has it EVER, and sometimes I feel like I hardly know myself any more), but in this particular blog today?

I just want to talk about how the rail trail is super-purty.

Here’s some shots from my commute.  Here’s what I got to look at yesterday, going to and from my job.

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And yes, biking through all that bucolic splendor has aggravated fall allergies I never even knew I had.  But.  This is why Claritin was given unto the world.  I ride again tomorrow, and I’m totally psyched!

I dig my life.

My Workout Tonight

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I did a core workout tonight.  Mind you, I’ve done core workouts before.  Plenty.  But this was all new material.  New songs, new moves.

New ways to punish me for the sins of my (apparently dreadful, terrible, awful) past lives.

First it felt like this…

-

-

…and then it was like…

-

-

…and my instructor started going…

-

-

…and then my will to live surfaced and I got all…

-

-

...even though, deep in my heart, I know I actually was more like…

-

napoleon-dynamite_l

Skills.
Photo from newnostalgia.wordpress.com

And all in the space of 30 minutes.

Brutal.

Vote for Pedro!

Donatella Versace, please stop the madness

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I’ve always sort of looked at the pictures of Donatella Versace slightly at an angle.  I couldn’t look straight at them, because I always found her distorted, surgically altered features were an assault upon mine eyes.  You know what I mean?  Then I found this picture.  Behold!  Young Donatella Versace.

Found at messynessychic.com

Holy. Shit. She’s gorgeous.
Found at messynessychic.com

This is the face she could have carried forward as she aged.  This was what she would have had to work with so that she could age gracefully.  If she still had this face she would be a beautiful older woman.

Instead, howevermany surgeries/injections/nips/tucks/peels later, this is the face she has (ironically) paid a lot of money for.  Presenting, haute couture’s reigning…

…uh…

OK, seriously, she looks like a half-orc.

Half-orc. Photo taken from becauseiamfabulous.com

Looks like meat’s back on the menu, boys.
Photo taken from becauseiamfabulous.com
Quote taken from the orc Ugluk, in “Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers”

Ladies, please.  Please please please.  Stop the madness.  “But there’s so much pressure to look good!”, they say.  People.  Guess what?

YOU WON’T LOOK GOOD.  This doesn’t look good.  Do you want to look good?  Love yourself enough to take care of yourself and figure out what makes you happy and do it and for Chrissakes quit smoking (especially if you’re concerned about your skin!) and hydrate/moisturize/be careful in the sun.

Someone said to me a long time ago, “You earn the face you wear when you’re older.”  That idea stayed with me.  Donatella Versace (and so, so many other adherents to the elective-surgery-go-round) have earned these…bizarre…misshapen…stretched faces, from thinking they could beat the process.  How can you justify surgery that’s supposed to make you “look better” when life as an orc is the result?

The Terrors of Being a Couch Potato: Calendar Edition

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Did you ever need a calendar and not want to get up from your laptop (as you sprawl on the couch) and walk ten feet to your desk?  So instead you just Google image the month you need so you can feast your eyes on one of the trillion digitized maps that are just at your fingertips?  Did you ever open that in a new tab so you wouldn’t have to “mess up” where you are and go back through your browser to return to your very important reading material regarding Dave Matthews getting stranded while riding a bicycle in Hershey PA before a concert?  And then…

Did you ever forget that you had this new tab open, then open like ten more because you’re an unrepentant tab junkie, then completely forget what you had open on all of them so you had to scroll through each tab to see if it was worth keeping open?  So when you get to the tab that has the calendars on it you don’t know what you’re about to see and it looks something like this:

August August everywhere...

August August everywhere…

And then your brain starts to hurt because time is just flying at you and time and months and TIME and this was like something out of The Twilight Zone and you’re all “Paging Mr. Serling…Rod Serling, please report to my cerebral cortex” only he doesn’t show up because right now you’re on your own with nothing but your wits and perhaps a rudimentary lathe to save you.  (p.s. Rod Serling was an early childhood crush of mine, so…let that rattle around in there for a while.)  Then the page starts to swirl in on itself and your cat’s looking at you like he’s in on some giant universal secret (but then again, when doesn’t he?) and…

Maybe he's screaming because it's so effing hot out.

Maybe he’s screaming because it’s so effing hot out. I would imagine Norwegians wither in the heat.
(How’s that for a little Edvard Munch humor?)

And then you’re like HOLY CRAP WHERE DID ALL THIS TIME GO?  What is my place in the universe?  What is my legacy?  Why am I sitting on my couch thinking about cured meat?  Is this the heat?  Who’s up for wiffle ball?  Where did those hairs come from?  Who gave the green light to the Shake Weight?  And: why?  Am I forever doomed to think like a twelve-year-old?

What happens if I apply HeadOn somewhere other than directly on my forehead?  The horror…the horror…

Or is this just me???

(p.p.s: My regular Monday food blog will show up on Tuesday.  Sometimes, you’ve got to go where your brain takes you.)