Well You Know Some Days Are Aces And Some Days Are Faces Well Some Days Are 2's And 3's

Today is a 2. Well, maybe a 3. It is Friday and the sun is shining. Throw in a Canucks victory tonight and I might even bump today up to a 4.

Shawn and I had big plans to change our food habits (both in the eating and preparing department.) Big plans that were derailed by one night. One night following a bad day that resulted in both of us feeling cranky and unappreciated. The combination of cranky + unappreciated is a pernicious one, made especially deadly when both of us feel that way. We were both very shouty last night is what I'm saying.

My blog is not a place for me to write a list of Shawn's flaws (because clearly last night was all his fault) (*sarcasm*) but it is a place where I strive for honesty. I read some blogs that are all sunshine! rainbows! unicorns! happyhappyhappy! and I wonder how honest those bloggers are being. I mean, really? You never fight? Everything is always perfect? I'm not judging them I just feel ... inadequate. I'm judging myself, I guess. It's silly. Shawn and I are both fiery people. We fight. We also love each other. It's just hard to remember the love bit when in the midst of a heated discussion about whose turn it is to unload the damn dishwasher (ps: it was his turn. Who ended up unloading it? Me. Who dramatically sighed and huffed her way through the entire process? Also me. I'm not proud.)

Jennie wrote a post this week that really struck a nerve with me. This in particular really made me think: "Every day I want to be better. He may not do the dishes, but he deserves that much from me." Last night I did not try to be better. Last night I fought with gritted teeth and sharp words.

It's difficult, sometimes, to see the big picture. I get tangled up in the here and now and when the here and now is arduous (like it was last night) I tend to think that it will always be arduous. It takes effort to pull myself out of the mire so I don't. I sit and I stew and I prove myself right. It's ridiculous and laborious and if I could think of any more "ous" words I would write them here. Strenuous? Ludicrous? Hilarious? I think it's pretty safe to say that I don't really know where I'm going with this post at this point and I should just stop typing.

Happy Friday, peeps! I hope that your weekend is all happyhappyhappy! with lots of sunshine! rainbows! and unicorns!

PS: Go Canucks!

For I Think I Lost Direction When You Threw Me Out Of Bed

I jumped out of bed yesterday morning and shook Shawn awake in one fluid motion. "It's 8 o'clock-I'm late-I have to shower-can you please deal with the dogs" I shouted as I ran out of the bedroom. He mumbled something sleepily in reply but I didn't hear him; I was already in the bathroom. I was furiously rinsing suds out of my hair when Shawn poked his head around the shower curtain. "Baby," he said gently, "it's quarter to seven. You don't need to rush." I rarely remember my dreams so when I do I have a hard time differentiating between them and real life. I dreamt that I was an hour late so when I woke up, I woke up in a panic and didn't stop to think.

Yesterday was rough. My mom had surgery in the morning and my brother jumped out of a plane (in Hawaii!) in the afternoon. The two events had nothing to do with each other; it was just an unfortunate coincidence that they happened on the same day. It's not surprising that that I woke up the way that I did. It's also not surprising that I spent the day in a similar state of frenetic energy. It's days like yesterday that make me realize how deeply my life is affected by my anxiety. There were times yesterday when I wasn't functioning because I was too busy envisioning a freak gust of wind carrying my brother out to shark-infested waters or other macabre scenarios.

I'm happy to report that everyone is alive and well. My mom's surgery went well and she is expected to be released from the hospital tomorrow and my brother managed to skydive without being eaten by sharks.

And I woke up at the correct time today and hit the snooze button a few times for good measure.

And As Soon As You Have Rearranged The Mess In Your Head He Will Show Up Looking Sane Perfectly Sane If I Know Crazy

My anxiety is difficult for me to explain to most people. I get "what are you so worried about?" a lot. Also "you just need to relax" (stabby stab stab.) The thing is, I'm not worried. To be worried implies a thought process. When I walk into a room full of strangers, I am not worried that they won't like me or that I won't have anything to talk about or that I'll say the wrong things. I am not worried. I am not thinking, period. I am trying to remember to breathe because I feel light-headed and dizzy. I am trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other because my knees feel like jelly. I am trying to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I am in survival mode, trying to quell the flight and embrace the fight (though I know that walking into a room full of people I don't know doesn't necessitate a "fight," my anxiety feels very primitive to me.) I don't let my anxiety stop me from walking into a room full of strangers, though. I walk into the room and I die a little on the inside as I talk too quickly and laugh too loudly and drink too much gin and smile too widely and sometimes I think that I'm pulling it off, I'm fooling people into thinking that I'm just a normal person having a normal night out.

* * * * *

Part of the review process at the sleep disorder clinic was an appointment with a psychiatrist. Before I could be admitted to the program it needed to be confirmed that I sometimes feel sad and blue because I am tired because of the sleeping issues, and not that I suffer from depression which causes sleepiness and lethargy in some people. So I met with the psychiatrist and we talked about how I sleep and the problems I have and the triggers I have identified. At the end of our appointment, the psychiatrist told me that I would be accepted into the program (happy face!) She also told me that when I am finished with the sleep disorder program, perhaps I should consider treatment for my anxiety disorder which she feels is unrelated to my sleeping issues but is obviously having a negative effect on my quality of life. And then I cried a little because I hadn't spoken to the psychiatrist about my anxiety. Sure she's a medical professional trained to identify mental illness, but I couldn't help feeling exposed. I thought I was quirky and maybe a little high-strung but after spending only one hour with the psychiatrist she could see that I am crazy.

Crazy: a word I use to describe myself to diminish the impact it has when others use it against me; a word that now feels tainted and wrong coming out of my mouth.

* * * * *

I wanted to talk about TequilaCon and how fun it was and how fantastic it was to meet people I've long thought were rad, only to find out that they are ten times as rad in person as they are on the internet. I wanted to talk about how proud I am of myself for going to a pub, alone, to meet up with a group of people who aren't strangers but the majority of whom I've never met before. I wanted to tell you about the giggles and the mooosetashes and the poutine and instead I'm all angsty and wrapped up in my own head. I blame the rain.

So I Crawl Underneath My Blanket Where I Can Hide Away I Know I Can't Take It

So, we all knew I was going back to buy the Snuggies, right? This doesn't come as a surprise to anyone, does it?

Well, anyone apart from Wolfgang and Stella.

Stella has perfected her "wtf?" look.

Wolfgang is still working on his.

Surprisingly, Stella didn't protest the Snuggie. Perhaps she is becoming more accommodating of my crazy as she gets older, or maybe she didn't have any fight left in her after kicking Wolfgang's ass up and down the dog park for an hour. Either way, she stayed in the Snuggie for a good five minutes before completely losing her shit.

Wolfgang loved his Snuggie. He was so sad when I took the Snuggie away (Stella was trying to eat it off his back.)

It's a blanket! With sleeves! What's not to love?!

It was definitely worth the $10 and the drive back to the pet store (and the judgment of the pet store cashier as I slunk through making my purchase) to see my pups wrapped up in fleecy goodness. Now whenever I feel blue I can put the puppies in the Snuggies and it's like instant sunshine and rainbows.

So I Hid My Soiled Hands Behind My Back Somewhere Along The line I Must've Gone Off Track With You

In the last few days I have been an inconsiderate ass both on and off the internet. It makes my heart ache to know that I have caused hurt feelings or bruised egos or frustration. Knowing that someone I care about is vexed because of me makes me want to shrivel up and hide in a dark hole. It doesn't matter that my intent was in no way malicious, I am still angry at myself for my thoughtless blunders. It's silly; I carry around the guilt and negativity long after I've apologized and been forgiven. It's neither healthy nor productive yet here I am, feeling sad and blue and worthless.

* * *

This morning Shawn was driving on the highway behind a garbage truck when a large piece of metal flew out of the back of the truck and hit our car. Shawn is okay (which is all that matters in this situation) but our car is not. Literally last night we had a discussion about how money is a bit tight this month due to vet bills and our upcoming property tax bill.

* * *

Today is not a good day but I can't help but smile when I watch this video. I don't know much about Chatroulette and I'm not interested in finding out more (I feel like there is probably a lot of naked man junk floating around) but it makes me happy that there are people like Merton out there making the world a funnier place.

And Ride The Wobbly Wave Of Fame

I worry. A lot. I worry about everything, all the time. It's a struggle for me, when in the midst of yet another meltdown, to figure out if my anxiety is justified or if it's just the crazy taking over my brain. Sometimes I sort it out quickly (like last night when Shawn forgot to tell me to turn right until we were halfway through the intersection and I started to hyperventilate because I didn't know the area we were driving in and he was supposed to be my navigator and what kind of navigator tells you to turn right when you're halfway through the intersection? But then I made it through the intersection and pulled a u-turn and headed in the right direction. Crisis averted. Universe intact.) But then there are times when life tilts on its side a little and I think that maybe all my anxiety is completely reasonable but there's no way to tell, not for now at least, not for a while, so what do I do? I sit here and I fret and I bite my nails and I write vague things on the internet because writing in detail would make things seem too real. I'm feeling wobbly today is what I'm saying.

These Are My Confessions

Neither Shawn nor I have ever cleaned our oven. We moved into our condo over two years ago. There is a patch of black sludge at the bottom. Our smoke alarm randomly goes off when we use it. The oven remains uncleaned.

December 16th was the last time I went to karate. At first I could justify it: the dojo was closed over Christmas and then I had my surgery. Now? Now I'm just lazy. And fat.

I am obsessed with well-groomed eyebrows, mainly because I have no idea how to make mine pretty. I pluck out the unibrowy bits but my brows never look awesome. If I see someone with great eyebrows, I stare. Inappropriately. Like, if I'm talking to someone with great eyebrows I will be unable to maintain eye contact because I'm entranced by their brows. Someone, please, put me out of my misery. How do I get great brows? I've tried having them waxed and threaded; I was not impressed by either and not just because it was ouchie.

I shout at the television when I watch hockey.

Music is a huge part of my life. I listen to music every day. I love listening to my favourite bands but I also love discovering new music to love. I love making playlists for myself (I have playlists for dog-walking, cleaning, commuting, driving - trips under an hour in length and trips over an hour in length, etc.) I love making mixes for my friends. I do not love live shows. I feel like a music failure, like I'm not fully supporting the artists I love because I don't go to their live shows. I used to love going to shows but my anxiety and hatred of large crowds has prevented me from going to any in the last few years. This will all change in April when I go see Muse perform. I'm putting it on the internet so I can't change my mind. I love Muse, I've never seen them live, Shawn and I have ground floor seats = I am going to that show no matter what.

I cannot spell tomorrow without spellcheck. I always double the m. Shame.

I think it's disgusting that Shawn puts jam on his grilled cheese sandwich but I think it's completely normal that I put pickles in my peanut butter sandwich.

Alright peeps, this is a safe place; what are your confessions?

Jumping Music Swift D.J.s Smoke Machines And Laser Rays

I'm having laser eye surgery in two hours. I am feeling a bit ... jittery. I didn't sleep much last night so I'm relying on caffeine to keep me awake this morning. My coffee/stress diet is always a bad plan but I always resort to it when I'm in survival mode. It's silly but I am in survival mode right now. I feel like I can't tell anyone how scared I am for this surgery because it's something I've chosen to do. It's not necessary. I don't have to do it. Perfect vision is something that I want. I just ... don't want to have to have surgery to get it.

So I'm here. Watching the clock. Wishing away the minutes so that I can go get it over with. Trying not to cry when Shawn makes the "bzzzzz" noise and points at my eyes because he really does think that I'm stronger than I am and that I'm not scared. Which is ridiculous because I'm the lady who hasn't been to the dentist in over two years because of the anxiety attacks that hit as soon as the dentist chair reclines.

The good news it that I went Boxing Day shopping and splurged on new bed stuff. I got a pillow-top mattress pad and new king-sized pillows and a fluffy new duvet and duvet cover. Paired with the new Egyptian-cotton sheets and soft, flannel pyjamas that my mom gave me for Christmas, our bed is somewhere that I'm looking forward to spending the next few days in. Plus there are two kinds of ice cream in my freezer. And a nine-hour audiobook (The Sweetness At the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley) and thirty-five podcasts (You Look Nice Today) on my ipod. I'm as prepared as I can be, is what I'm saying.

Dinner At Eight Was Okay Before The Toast Full Of Gleams

Last week in a fit of "I hate family drama, we're getting the fuck out of here for Christmas"-induced rage, I went online and looked up plane tickets. I didn't know where we were going to go, I just knew that I couldn't stay here (and yes, I do realize that I am a bit of a hypocrite for hating my family's drama when I so clearly embrace drama as a way of life.)

It didn't take long for me to realize that Shawn's work schedule plus two rambunctious puppies means that we have to stay in town. My furious searching did lead me to a cheap flight from Montreal to Vancouver, though, proving that rage isn't always unproductive. Shawn called his dad and a few clicks later, his flight was booked. Shawn's dad will be here from December 19th to the 28th.

Which leads me to my next bit of crazy: I decided that I would have my parents over for dinner so they could spend time with Shawn's dad (well, my dad wants to spend time with Shawn's dad, my mom wants to spend time with the puppies.) Due to family drama, my parents aren't having a turkey dinner this year and because Shawn's dad is in Vancouver instead of Montreal, he isn't having a turkey dinner. You can see where this is headed, right? I decided (because I am insane) that I would make a turkey dinner. On Sunday. Six days from now. I have never cooked a turkey before. I need help, peeps, and I'm hoping you will all share your wisdom.

How big should my turkey be? There will be 6 adults eating it.

I don't have a roasting pan so I was just going to buy a disposable aluminum pan. Is this a bad idea?

How long and at what temperature does the turkey need to cook? I have a meat thermometer but I never know where to stick it so I'm not sure that it's completely accurate.

Does anyone have a good stuffing recipe? I've never really eaten stuffing before because it creeps me out that it's cooked inside the turkey but it has recently come to my attention that you can make stuffing outside of the turkey. So I need a recipe for cooked-outside-the-bird stuffing. Also, what is the difference between stuffing and dressing?

I am making garlic smashed potatoes but I need a few more side dishes - what is your favourite Christmas dinner side dish? (Shawn is allergic to carrots and I hate mushrooms. Bonus points if it's a beet recipe!) I was thinking of doing sweet potato mash smothered in mini marshmallows and a green salad but I'm not sure. Is it okay to serve sweet potatoes and regular potatoes? Is green salad lame? I feel like I need a green vegetable and I'm kind of bored of broccoli. Does anyone have a kickass brussel sprout recipe?

For dessert I'm planning to do a bourbon pecan pie and my grandma's pumpkin chiffon pie. I don't have any questions about dessert, I'm just bragging.

And I Get What I Want My Name Is My Credit Card Don't Try To Hate Me Because I Am So Popular

I was not one of the sparkly popular kids in school. My family didn't have a lot of money; I wore my sister's hand-me-down clothes; my parents drove a 15-year-old station wagon (with imitation wood panelling!); we lived in a neighbourhood of families who took annual vacations to places like Palm Springs and Hawaii. It wasn't just my family's financial situation that made me an easy target, though. I was quiet; I got good grades in school; teachers liked me because I did my homework and didn't create any problems. I was a nerd, is what I'm saying. I was a nerd without trendy clothes or exotic vacation stories. I was a nerd before being a nerd was cool. Most of the time I was able to stay under the radar of the beautiful people but occasionally one of the Wretched would take notice of me and make my life miserable. It made me a little mistrustful of the beautiful people. The anxiety doesn't help, of course, but I'm fairly certain that the root of my social awkwardness can be traced back to my angst-ridden days in elementary school. I live my life stumbling from one awkward encounter to the next, relying on my core group of people to provide my comfort zone.

And then a night like tonight happens. Kyla Roma came to Vancouver and asked if I wanted to meet. Kyla Roma is one of the sparkly popular kids of my bloggy world. Her writing is honest and beautiful. Her soul shines through her words. She ... scares me. Seriously. I was excited to meet her but also anxious. Tummy-clenching, speak-too-quickly, forget-to-breathe anxious. Which is silly because obviously she was lovely and sweet and I had a fabulous time. We drank winter ale and ate yam fries and talked about blogging and this may just be the 9% beer talking but I feel like tonight I managed to be kinda sorta un-awkward (Kyla, if you don't agree, please be a darling and pretend that you do!) Nights like tonight make me feel like maybe I can do blogger meet-ups without dying inside. Not anytime soon, mind you, but I'm getting there. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

If We Were Children I Would Bake You A Mud Pie

Things currently making my heart sing:

* * * * *

All of the sweet comments and emails you guys have sent regarding my last post. You are all rockstars. I hadn't written about the seizures because there wasn't much to say about it. It sucks. It's kind of scary. It's extremely inconvenient (my driver's licence has been suspended until I have a clear brain scan.) And it feels slightly less scary today after writing about it. Thank you for reminding me why I love blogging.

* * * * *

Fantastic Mr. Fox. I rarely go to the movies but last night Shawn convinced me to go see Fantastic Mr. Fox with him and a few friends. It blew my mind. I spent half the movie grinning like a fool, not because the movie was particularly funny but because it made me so happy.

* * * * *

One of my favourite feelings in the world: the clean sheets, clean pyjamas, clean Hillary amalgam. I am currently in bed after a brutal workout. I came home and put clean linens on the bed, took a hot shower, and put on my comfiest pyjamas. I am a happy bunny.

* * * * *

The Them Crooked Vultures album. Dudes. It rocks my effing world.

* * * * *

Ben's hatred of science.

* * * * *

What's putting a spring in your step and a smile on your face today?

And I Feel Anxious Sleeping Inches From Me

I spent the entire trip to my doctor's office feeling more and more surly, composing withering monologues in my head. I arrived for my appointment five minutes early and then sat in the exam room for twenty minutes, my resolve fading every time I heard footsteps outside the closed door. By the time my doctor entered the room any desire to confront her had been suppressed by my extreme anxiety at seeing her again. I spent the first five minutes of the appointment reminding myself to breathe.

Everything turned out to be fine. My doctor didn't mention what happened the last time I saw her so neither did I. It was rather anticlimactic, actually. I was so affected by her words and spent so much time and energy worrying about my situation with disliking my doctor so strongly and not being able to find a new doctor, and in the end it was completely unnecessary. I am so neurotic sometimes, it's ridiculous.

Who's Getting Scared Now

I'm going to see my doctor today. The same doctor who I swore I would never see again.

My search for a new doctor has been completely unsuccessful. After whittling away at my list of deal breakers, I was left with just one: I will not travel for more than half an hour to see my doctor. I cannot find a doctor within half an hour's travel time from either my home or my office, so I'm left with my doctor who made me cry.

I'm trying to be positive. I haven't seen her in over a year. Maybe she won't remember our last appointment.

I'm putting this on the internet for accountability. I've spent the morning trying to come up with valid reasons why I should not go to this appointment. I need the internet to kick my ass if I don't go.

I Wrapped Up All Your Presents Wrote My Name On Every Card

I have a lot of negative feelings about Christmas. I spend a large portion of every December (and November if I'm being completely honest) feeling blue, then feeling guilty for feeling blue because I have a lot of good things in my life that I should be happy about, and then feeling sad about feeling guilty about feeling blue. Feel free to pity Shawn; I do.

Last week Nilsa wrote that holiday traditions don't need to be traditional. It was an aha! moment for me. Every year I feel like I fail at Christmas because we don't have (or want) a Christmas tree, or decorate every available space with assorted Christmas bric-a-brac like my mother does, or enjoy listening to Christmas carols. Nilsa's post, along with all of the lovely suggestions you made on my "woe is me, Christmas is so haaaard" post, made me understand that Shawn and I don't need to have a cookie cutter Christmas. Last year we barbecued hamburgers in the snow on Christmas Eve. It is officially our very own Christmas tradition (the hamburger part; I could do without the snow part.) I'm (tentatively) excited about Christmas this year. Sure there will be family drama - there always is - and frustration. But there will also be hamburgers. And ... what else? What are your non-traditional holiday traditions? I need to poach some new traditions for Kickass Christmas '09.

In other Christmas news (look at me go! I'm all about the Christmas this year) I am thinking of putting together a card exchange if I can drum up some interest. I'm thinking anyone who wanted to participate could email me their mailing address (ninjahills at gmail dot com) by a certain date and then I would distribute the addresses so everyone who sent a card would receive a card. I love receiving snail mail and finding new blogs and this seems like a cool (holiday-themed! Kickass Christmas '09!) way to do it. Is this something you would want to participate in? I realize not everyone celebrates Christmas and I'm trying to not be exclusive so let's call this the Holiday Card Swap. Open to everyone!

With A Twelve Pack From 12th & Porter With Billy 4:30am At Night

Dear Lovely Peeps Who Commented On Yesterday's Angsty Post,

Thank you for your kind words and suggestions. I was lost in my own head yesterday and you helped me find my way back out. You rock, dudes.

Love,
Trying To Be Less Crazy

* * * * *

Dear Stella,

I'm sorry for not realizing it was your 2nd birthday yesterday until Facebook told me. Also, happy birthday!

Love,
The Lady Who Feels Guilty Even Though She Realizes That You Don't Even Know It Was Your Birthday

* * * * *

Dear Wolfgang,

Thanks for the 4:30 wake up call this morning, buddy. Was it really necessary to continue to whine for half an hour after I took you out for a pee and gave you a drink of water and a handful of biscuits?

Sincerely,
The Lady Who Wants To Punch You

* * * * *

Dear Shawn,

You didn't get up because you didn't hear Wolfgang? Really? Really?

Sincerely,
The Lady Who Really Wants To Punch You

* * * * *

Dear A Most Wanted Man By John Le Carre,

Please do not end.

Love,
The Lady Who Is Attempting to Pace Herself

* * * * *

Dear Ryan Johnson,

Watching you plow into the boards during last night's hockey game was horrifying; I cried when they wheeled you off the ice on a stretcher. I am very happy that you are going to be okay.

Love,
A Hockey Fan Who May Be A Tad Too Emotionally Invested In Her Canucks

When That Blue Heartache Starts Hurtin'

I remember family excursions to the Christmas tree farm. My siblings and I hunt for the perfect tree (we want height while my mom goes for fullness. She always wins.) My dad cuts the tree down with a hacksaw while we drink watery hot chocolate. My parents bind the tree to the roof of our station wagon - my mom flitting about with excessive amounts of yellow rope, my dad trying not to swear too much.

* * * * *

When I am eleven, my dad is living in Germany. My mom, attempting a return to normalcy, makes the trek out to the Christmas tree farm. I go with her, not out of love or respect for tradition but because she bribes me with a sundae from McDonalds. We manage to find a tree and cut it down and attach it to the roof of the car by ourselves - we are women, hear us roar. That night after we have screwed the tree into the stand and set it up in the family room and decorated it with years' worth of accumulated trinkets, the tree falls over onto the piano.

* * * * *

I remember Christmas dinner at my aunt's house. My mom's family is back east so we spend every holiday dinner at my dad's sister's house, avoiding her abusive husband and
dodging our maniacal cousin. We eat piles of ambrosia salad - the night's only redeeming quality and my first memory of emotional eating. When I am 20 my cousin dies and we start eating Christmas dinner at my parents' house, immediate family only.

* * * * *

It's a tired subject, but it seems that Christmas hits the stores earlier than the year before. Hallowe'en isn't over yet but Christmas paraphernalia already runs rampant and I can feel my Christmas Funk beginning. I don't know how to prevent it.

Just Beat It Beat It Beat It Beat It No One Wants To Be Defeated - Take 9

Friday Faff: Birthdays and Burgers and Beets Edition

* * * * *

So, uhh, this is awkward. It turns out that Wolfgang's birthday isn't until next Tuesday. Yet another reason why I should stick to fur-babies.

* * * * *

Thank you for all your road trip suggestions! I am kind of ridiculously excited to eat at In-n-Out Burger. Shawn and I ate dinner at Fatburger the night we got engaged. We served burgers at our wedding. We are burger people, is what I'm saying. All the other road trip stuff is great too, don't get me wrong, but what I'm really looking forward to is the food. I'm going to shop at Trader Joe's! I'm going to drink lemonade at Sonic!! I am lame, I know.

* * * * *

So I ate my stupid September beets. Enough people suggested pickled beets that I figured they must be something special. Pickled beets are ... fine. The vinegar taste was quite strong, which masked the taste of the beets nicely. The problem was the cleanliness (and my craziness.) I bought a jar of pickled whole baby beets, which I assumed would be peeled. They were not peeled. I could see beet skin on some of the beets and they all had the top rooty bit attached. It was too much for me to handle so I used a paring knife to peel off the entire outer skin. I ended up with tiny little beet nuggets:


I served the beets on a salad, with a side of barbecued chicken and grilled zucchini. Who's in denial that summer is over? Not I.

* * * * *

Have a great weekend, peeps!

Just Shots Of Light And Broken Bike To Stimulate Your Busy Head

I was fretting about the motorcycle to a very wise lady yesterday and she told me that I am only making myself feel bad and that I should trust the universe. Which is a very simple concept, right? I mean, I can fret and worry and work myself into a tizzy, but at the end of the day, what's going to happen is going to happen. Zen people tend to freak me the fuck out so it was a bit odd that I was so accepting of her attitude. But I'm trying. I will try to trust the universe. I will try to trust Shawn. He has been as supportive of my crazy as he can be, without agreeing to give up the motorcycle (which, let's face it, is the only thing that will make the crazy disappear) so I will try to be supportive of his stupidity. (Hey, I said I'm trying.)

Instead of focusing on the things that are making me blue, I'm trying to focus on the things that make me happy. You know what makes me happy? Bullet points!

- How I Met Your Mother. I love this show. I love that Shawn loves this show. Our taste in television differs widely so I'm very glad to have found a show that we both enjoy. Last night's episode was hilarious. Tuxedo night? Classic.

- Road trips. In two weeks, Shawn and I will be embarking on a road trip with another couple. We are going to drive from Vancouver to Magic Mountain in California. The details are a little fuzzy right now but I have been promised a drive through the redwoods and at least half a day in San Francisco. So, Californians: is there anything we need to do, any restaurants we need to eat at (we're talking burgers and tacos here, nothing fancy), anything we'll be kicking ourselves if we miss? This road trip will be quick and dirty. We leave Wednesday night and have to be back by Monday night.

- Puppies. Stella will be finished her medication tonight and by tomorrow she will (hopefully) be back to normal. She has been so lethargic and grumpy while on this medication but it does seem to be helping her ear. I'm going to be very happy to not have a drugged-up puppy tomorrow.

What's making you happy today?

Now My Feet Won't Touch The Ground Now My Head Won't Stop

I do karate barefoot on mats that are covered in sweat daily and cleaned not so daily. The mats are sticky in places and smell bad, is what I'm saying. I try not to think about the mats when I'm standing on them.

I get home from karate and I go straight to the bathroom to clean my feet. First I douse them with rubbing alcohol. Then I have a shower and spend a few minutes scrubbing my feet with soap. Then I dry off and do another round of rubbing alcohol.

It's not the germs I worry about. It's not the sweat of strangers lingering on my feet that makes me clenchy. I've never had any sort of foot disease that has scared me senseless. It's just ... why not clean my feet? It takes five minutes. It seems logical to me to spend five minutes cleaning my feet to prevent any sort of foot mushrooms or toe plague or whatever it is I could contract from standing on scummy flooring. It doesn't seem abnormal to me.

But ... Shawn doesn't clean his feet after karate. He comes home and has a shower and cracks open a beer or checks his email or plays with the pups. He doesn't think about what could be growing on his feet. He doesn't worry that his toenails are going to fall out.

It makes me mistrust my brain. It makes me worry that maybe I'm reacting too strongly to other situations. Like the motorcycle.

Shawn took a professional motorcycle safety course that provided ten hours of classroom training and twenty hours of road training. He bought a jacket with armour in it, gloves, boots, and a full helmet with a face shield. He bought a motorcycle with an engine that matches his skill level. And yet ... I worry. I worry about things that I can't articulate because writing them down makes them more real.

At the same time, I'm concerned that my anxiety is an overreaction. Like the karate feet. I'm worried about my worry. Feel free to sympathize with Shawn; the internal drama has made me a very unpleasant person to live with lately. Which is frustrating because I don't want to be mad about this. I don't want to be the shrewish wife who doesn't let her husband have any fun. But I kind of don't want him to have any fun if his idea of fun could result in him getting smushed.

Lift The Bad Weight Off Your Mullet And Let The Thoughts Fall Off Your Tongue

I am between stylists right now, which is probably a bad time for me to decide to do something drastic to my hair. I'm not a huge fan of rationality or logic though, so Saturday morning I went to the mall and got my hair cut. I know, right? The mall. I haven't had a mall haircut since ... I don't even know. Which is snobby. I mean, whose to say that you can't get a fabulous haircut at the mall? Maybe I would discover a hidden gem who gives amazing haircuts and only charges $30. Or maybe I would end up paying $50 for a mullet.

This is my hair before the mulletization.

And this is my mullet.

Not too mullety, right? However, it took about half an hour of intense styling with three different styling tools and many hair products to get it to look like this. Mullet camouflage is time consuming.

I asked for very little layering because my hair is fine and goes a bit wonky with layers. My "mall gem" interpreted this to mean that I wanted many layers. Many short layers. Many mullety layers. And I don't even know what to say about the bangs.

Let's just say I will be wearing a ponytail until the mullet grows out.