Sunday, July 26, 2009

Fear and Crying in San Francisco

I don't cry.

No, really. I am not a cryer. If you're one of the few people that has seen me cry, you're in a special club and should expect your bumper sticker in the mail any day now.

The few times I've cried have to do with the weak and innocent, usually children and animals. Old Yellar? Cried like a baby and refuse to watch it again. Marly & Me? Ditto. The Sarah Mclaughlin ASPCA commercials? Forget about it.

But when it comes to adult human issues, I have a pretty hardened heart. I didn't cry when my grandmother died, even though I tried. Seriously, I tried to feel something for that crazy old bat that mentally abused my father for years, but I couldn't. It seems with me that one has to earn compassion if you're not weak or innocent. And that's a pretty hard thing to do.

So you can imagine how shocked I was on Friday when I answered the phone and immediately started crying within a brief moment's time. It shocked my mom, with whom I was on the phone. It shocked my hubba-bubba, who was sitting nearby. And had my father known, I'm sure it would have shocked him, too.

As many of you know, my father is a cancer survivor. He was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in late 2007. After several gruelling rounds of chemo, he was declared to be in remission. His hair grew back, he started gaining weight and he started to, for the first time in months, feel like a human again. We reluctantly rejoiced, hoping not to be too boastful in the face of the cancer, hoping we didn't tempt fate once more, hoping we were not too optimistic.

It appears the cause for rejoicing is over. The cancer is back. It has now, however, spread to his liver and they're afraid it's gone even further.

He goes in for a brain and bone scan on Monday. Then they'll set up more biopsies. At that point, he'll decide if he wants to pursue treatment.

If I'm being honest, none of this was unforeseen. Lung cancer is a cruel and tricky foe. Often times, it retreats only to regroup and attack with more force. The diagnosis isn't what has me crying. Again, that is not surprising. What has me crying is fear.

Am I afraid that Daddy will die? I came to grips with the fact that we all only have a finite of time in this world long ago. No, that's not it.

Simply put, I'm afraid that he's afraid. If you've read the post from my old blog entitled "My Personal Phoenix" (I just reposted it here), you know that my father has always been the pinnacle of manhood for me. The idea that he might be scared is just killing me inside.

What scares me the most, however, is that his fear will guide his decision on treatment.

I spoke with Dad this morning. After a lenghty discussion on policitics (his favorite topic lately), I asked him how he was feeling. He paused. I heard him sigh and finally he said he's not feeling very well at all. He said his hips are hurting and he has no appetite and has started losing weight again. I know that he's frightened that if he starts treatment, all this will escalate. I certainly can't blame him for being afraid. But how do you tell your child that you're scared? He hasn't quite figured that out yet, it seems.

I'm praying that my father can escape the trepidation I know he's feeling, regardless of the outcome. I'm praying that if he can't escape it, he can at least share it with us so that it's one less burden he feels he has to carry alone.

For my entire life, my father has been a major source of strength for me and now, I just pray I can return the favor.

My Personal Phoenix (repost)

It was a cold Friday in January: a horrible day at work and we had gotten some heavy, wind-driven rains that wreaked havoc in the city. I was very glad for the miserable day to be over. I counted my steps home, never as relieved to be done with a work week.

I walked in the front door, welcomed by the warm light from the lamp on the front table. I was taking off my coat when I heard my husband call from his office, "Hey, Sweetheart." I knew something was terribly wrong. He had never before called me "Sweetheart".

He walked slowly into the foyer where I was hanging up my coat. With pity and concern in his eyes, he told me to sit down. I braced myself against the wall and begged, "Just say it." He sighed heavily. He put his hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes and said, "Your mom called. Your father has lung cancer. You need to call her."

I hung my head, nodded and shrugged off his hands. I grabbed the cordless phone and settled in the living room to call my mother. She answered on the first ring. They had known since November, when my father had a small stroke. Dad was undergoing multiple scans and tests and they found tumors in his lungs and one of his kidneys. The only reason they were telling me now was because the oncologist knew my brother and they were afraid it would get out.

As devastating as this was, unfortunately it was not surprising. Daddy had been smoking for more than 50 years. Though the news wasn't shocking to me, my realization was: for the first time in my life, it occurred to me that my father was vulnerable.

He had always been a benchmark for me. Until I met my husband, my father was the smartest man in my life. He was also the strongest. Dad was unbending and set in his ways. He was a rather imposing presence at 6' tall with hands the size of baseball mitts. Add to Daddy's towering physical presence his stoicism and quiet intelligence and I thought he could do anything in this wide world.

In his thirty years at his company, he had never called in sick. Dad's philosophy was that if someone was depending on you, following through was not optional.

While not artistic in any way, shape or form, the man was creative. By trade, he was a machinist. If there was a machine that needed a part, he could make it. He could also create pure joy out of discarded junk. He made us a go-cart out of sheet metal and lawn mower parts and he built me a pottery wheel out of old scraps and a washing machine motor. He didn't see any of this as creativity. It all just made sense in his head.

The most amazing part of any of this was that he was minimally educated. Due to boredom and his work schedule, he graduated from high school by the skin of his teeth. At his company, they gave every employee an assessment test. Out of all the management, all the engineers with multiple college degrees and all the remaining hundreds of employees, my barely-educated father scored higher than all but one other person. To him it was just "common sense".

So in my little life, my dad had been the ultimate authority on everything. He was my Algebra guru. He fixed my cars when they had trouble. He could get splinters out when the doctor couldn't. He was my benchmark. All of the sudden, my benchmark was vulnerable.

The plan was for Dad to undergo six weeks of chemo and radiation. Then he would have surgery to remove the affected kidney. He managed the radiation and chemo pretty well overall. He suffered mild nausea and exhaustion, but kept his spirits up. After his final round of chemo the doctor informed him he would have to go through a much more aggressive round.

While slightly discouraged, Dad started in with the aggressive treatment. With each session, he became weaker and weaker. He was sleeping all the time and ate less and less. After his "final" treatment, the doctor asked him if he could take one more. Dad told him to wait and see.

After a few days, Daddy decided that one more treatment would kill him. He had lost about a pound a day since the aggressive chemo started. He was normally an extremely active man and had started his own business with some friends. He would typically go to his shop every day. The first week after treatment, however, the man who had never called in sick in his 30-year career stayed home for two whole days.

During one of my weekly phone calls with my mother, she gave me the update on Dad. Then, she softly asked me if I wanted to talk to him. I hesitated.

Daddy had never really known how to relate to me. We've had a very interesting relationship. He was best friends with my brothers. I know he loved me, but we rarely spoke. Not because we didn't want to; he just never knew what to say to me. I also think I scared him a little. My brothers were so reverent of my father that they pretty much let him do what he wanted. I, on the other hand, did not. I was the one that nagged him and scolded him for his bad behavior. I took a deep breath as I waited for him to pick up the receiver and I prepared to nag him some more.

I could hear him shuffling to the phone. He picked it up and I asked him how he was doing. He said he guessed he was doing alright. I paused and gently asked, "Really, Daddy?" He started to cry.

I have seen my father cry few other times in my entire life. He cried when his brother was murdered, when our family dog died, when my mother was diagnosed with cancer and when we gave me away to my husband. Then he cried once more on the phone that day.

I was taken aback by the emotion he was showing me. Not because it was unexpected or unwarranted. It was bothersome for me because I doubted he had let himself cry before that moment. It upset me that he felt like he always had to be so strong for all of us.

Back on the phone, I asked him if he was eating enough protein and if he was drinking enough water. He promised that he was doing the best he could and started telling me about the tomatoes and peppers he planted that week. I tried to think of something to reply with but couldn't get over the moment. I started to cry and told him I didn't know what to say. He replied, "Just tell me you love me, gal." So I did.

It's sad that it takes a tragedy to put the little things in our lives into perspective. Someone cutting me off on the freeway, not making a bonus at work, my computer crashing...all of it is so small and silly, yet I assigned so much importance to it all.

Here I was obsessing about my weight or what someone else thought of me or some other such nonsense and my father was at home obsessing on how to keep from letting everyone know how scared he was or if he would wake up the next morning.

We get so bogged down in our own little worlds that we forget that some people don't have choices anymore...at least not good ones. Daddy had a choice to try to fight to live or to give up and die. He quietly chose to fight.

My father is in remission now, though lung cancer has a habit of not staying dormant for long. At this point, we'll take what we can get. Out of the ashes of what could have been has arisen a new hope for what should be. My father has become my personal phoenix.

On that cold Friday in January, I learned the most valuable lesson of my life: I have been wrong. I have lived my life completely backwards. I've stressed and worried about the smallest of things. I've cared what strangers thought about me. I've ignored my family to do work that could have waited. I've gone years without telling my father what he's meant to me.

Today, like my father, I have made my choice to live. I've twisted the perspective in my mind and chosen to see only what is most important. While it is a shame that it took something as hateful and senseless as cancer to change my thinking, that single day in January has changed my life for the better. As my father would say, it's just common sense

Sunday, May 24, 2009

As requested....

I should be ashamed of myself and, well, I am.

I cannot believe I did it. I can't. I'm just sitting here shaking my head at myself. What in the sam hill was I thinking?

What I'm about to divulge might change your opinion of me...it's starting to make me wonder about myself.

Ready? I can't believe I'm going to say this outloud. Here goes:

I joined Facebook.

::ducking::

I KNOW! I KNOW!

I have resisted for so long! Then I felt the sudden urge to stalk someone from high school... did a google search on the skank and looky there...she has a FaceBook page. What? I can't see without being a friend? What does that mean? If I sign up for Facebook, can I see her? Can I see how she's been divorced 9 times and recently got fired from her job as official toilet scrubber of Texas rest stops because she's a jerk?

How in this wide world is someone supposed to be a proper stalker if they cannot properly stalk? Sheesh, people. A little help here?

I thought about it. I have gotten many invitations to join what I previously referred to as "The Devil's Network". I'm a grown woman! I don't need that crap. Do I ? Nooo. Wait. Do I?

With baited breath, I clicked on the "JOIN NOW" button. I felt so dirty! I felt like I had just stuffed those five twinkies in my mouth in the back room at the Weight Watchers meeting and turned around to find the group leader getting a glass of water. (Incidentally, that never really happened. I would never attempt to put FIVE twinkies in my mouth at one time. That would just be silly. Everyone knows you can't taste more than four at at time).

I quickly filled out all the fields it said were required. Never have I typed so fast! It's like the 5 second rule... if it takes me less than a minute to fill everything out, it's certainly not important enough to matter, right? Right!

So there I was. I had a profile. I had uploaded my favorite eyeball. We're all set. Now what?

Well, on Facebook, even as a member, you cannot see most people's information without asking them to be their friend.

Oh, giant crapballs.

As most of you know, I'm not very good with people. In fact, I'm surprised I haven't been completely ostracized yet. I keep checking the mailbox for that letter.

Now I have to ask people to be my friends? I usually just wait for people I know to move away and then just tell everyone we were friends. It saves all parties involved a lot of needless heartache and restraining orders.

At least Facebook makes it easy. They will import all of your contacts from your email program and see if there are members with matching email addresses. Then you just send one mass email and hope against hope that they won't realize it's you that's asking. Or maybe that's just me. At any rate, in a few clicks of the keyboard, I had asked people to be my friends!

Oh, God...what have I done? I have singlehandedly opened myself up for more rejection than the senior Sadie Hawkins dance. What if they refuse? What if they laugh and then refuse? What if they forward a copy of my pathetic request to the aforementioned skank and they have a party celebrating my loserhood? Well...too late now.

::DING::

What? What was that? It appears I have an email...oh wow..it's from Facebook. Unsuspecting Friend has added you to his friend's list.

HOT DIGGITY!!! I have a friend! It's official! It says it in black and white. GreenEyedGirl has 1, count them, er, it...1 friend! Ha. Take that Toilet Scrubbing Skank! I stayed up as long as I dared waiting and watching for any other Unsuspecting Friends. Alas, it was late. I called it a night and went to bed.

Next morning, I was going through my ususal morning routine and checked my email. 9 emails from Facebook. WOAH!! 9 MORE FRIENDS!!! Ha! A grand total of 10 friends! And since that time, I've been lost. Obesessed, even. I hear that email ding and I could be in the middle of receiving the Nobel Peace Prize and I will drop the blasted thing to see if that's one more friend. Pathetic, I know.

The problem now is that I keep looking for people I can ask if they will be my friend. It's like a contest now. I found Skank's profile and while I can't see it, I can see how many friends she has. Until I have more friends than she has, I will message complete strangers and offer to PayPal them some cash if they accept me as their friend. It's no different from 8th grade year, really.

So if you're in the market for a little extra cash, feel free to look me up on Facebook. I promise not to stalk you anymore than usual.

Green Eyed Girl Glossary

From time to time, I use odd little words or phrases that, more often than not, I get inquiries about. While I have been accused of allegedly “making words up” ::insert industrial strength eye roll::, I assure you that even if I did, which I don’t, they officially exist as of now because I’m providing happy little definitions below. So, there.


Mo-mo [moh-moh]
-noun

An utterly idiotic person, usually male. Must be used with as much disdain and eye rolling as humanly possible, especially when referring to one’s Hubba Bubba

“Sometimes my Hubba Bubba is SUCH a Mo-Mo!”



Hubba Bubba [huhb-uh buhb-uh]
-noun

A woman’s husband that is either from the South or exhibits redneck behavior.


”I’d love to go to the mall, but first I’ll have to see if my Hubba Bubba is home from the strip club.”


Skinny Mini [skin-ee min-ee]
-noun

An OMG, self-obsessed, skinny woman often overheard uttering “Does this make me look fat?”, who is entirely oblivious about why anyone might not be as skinny as she is. Nemesis to Green Eyed Girl
See also “She-Devil”, “Narcissist”, “MoMo”, “Stupid jerk”

“Did you see how that Skinny Mini looked at me? I ought to go fart on her”



Noms [nohmz]
-noun

LOLspeak for “food”

-verb

LOLspeak for “eat”

“That Skinny Mini needs some noms. I’ll give you $20 if you’ve ever seen her nom on anything other than a celery stalk”


Grr [gurr]
-interjection

Sound uttered with disdain and frustration. Often heard from paternal figure but adapted recently by daughter.

“Did you see that call the referee made?? GRRR!”


SnootySnot [snoot –ee snoht]
-noun

A person, usually female, who judges individuals on their appearance, their income level or profession. Not to be confused with “Skinny Mini”, though are often the same. Another nemesis to Green Eyed Girl

“I’ll show that SnootySnot! I’ll park my trailer right in front of her condo. Grrr.”


Pokies [pohk-ees]
-noun

Another term for acupuncture.

“Okay, Hubba Bubba, I’ll see you after pokies.”



Coke [kohk]
-noun

A genericized trademark , often used in Texas. All-conclusive term for “soda pop”, regardless of brand.

“Hey, Hubba Bubba, want a Coke? What kind? Ok, I’ll get you a Dr. Pepper.”


Meh [meh]
-interjection

A statement expressing lack of interest.

Green Eyed Girl: “Hey, honey. I updated my blog!”
Hubba Bubba: “Meh.”



Guh [guh]
-interjection

A statement expressing dejection and frustration.

Green Eyed Girl: “Hey, honey. I updated my blog!”
Hubba Bubba: “Meh.”
Green Eyed Girl: “Guh.”


Diddybop [dih-dee-bohp]
-verb

To move one’s feet or body rhythmically to music.

“Hey, look at Hubba Bubba diddybopping to that New Kids On The Block video. Guh.”



Sniggle [snih-guhl]
-verb

To lie close in comfort. Similar to “snuggle”, only cuddlier.

“Aww, Hubba Bubba! Of course I’ll sniggle with you. As soon as you shave, take a shower and change your underpants.”


Do what? [doo hwuht]
-idiom

Interrogation used to question what was just said, usually heard in Texas. Can be used when one simply didn’t hear what was asked or in a sarcastic response.

Hubba Bubba “Honey, I’m going to the strip club”
Green Eyed Girl “Do what?”



Yankee [yang-kee]
-noun

A derogatory term used to describe someone born in the northern part of the United States.

Green Eyed Girl: “Hey, Daddy! I’m getting married!”
Daddy: “To who?”
Green Eyed Girl: “Well, he’s a Yankee.”
Daddy: “Do what?”
Green Eyed Girl: “He’s from Michigan.”
Daddy: “Grrr”

While this is not a comprehensive list, it’s a good start and answers a majority of the questions I’ve received. If, however, you read something I’ve written and ask yourself, “Do what?”, pop me an email. I’ll be more than happy to fill you in.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Tale of Idiocy Part II

A long, long, long, long, loooooooooong time ago in the magical city of Chicago, lived a chubby, newly engaged green-eyed Texas girl. Freshly betrothed to JerkFace, she had recently graduated with an MFA and was getting prepared for what could have been the most important interview of her short little life (In case you haven’t figured it out, the Chubster is me. I was trying to be clever and write in third person, but my clever has about run out, so I’m switching over to first person now. Or maybe I should try second person narrative? No, that would confuse both of us).

I had procured an interview at one of the more prestigious galleries in Chicago through much praying, a little schmoozing and just a tad of begging. My interview was at 10 AM on Tuesday morning. On Monday, I dropped JerkFace off at the airport for one of his incessant business trips and proceeded to go shopping for the perfect interview outfit. We’ve all had those days where you’re looking and looking and looking for a very important dress or whatever and cannot find anything. This was not one of those days. I walked into the boutique for the Pleasantly Plump and calling to me from the center display rack was the most perfect suit with matching shirt. But would it fit? Oh, it fit. Didn’t even need to be altered. Would they steam it for me? Gladly…while I waited. Perfection. This was going to be good.

Perfect outfit? Check.
Mapquest directions printed out? Check
Stalk the location the night before? Check
Set out pantyhose and shoes? Check
Go to bed at exactly the right time? Check
Set the alarm so I could get up three hours prior to the interview? Check
Excellent.

Tuesday morning
7:00 AM

The alarm goes off and I literally jump out of bed. No, seriously… I bounded from bed like my butt was on fire. I must have been excited because I’m not really a “bounding” kind of person, but nonetheless I did.

7:15 AM

Should probably eat a healthy breakfast. First, must look up definition of “healthy”. OH, yeah. Ok. I can do that. Fruit Loops have fruit in them, so I’m all set.

7:30 AM

I prepare to hop into the shower (yes, I hopped. I told you already that I was excited). I brush my teeth, I take my engagement ring off and put it in the soap dish so it doesn’t get all soap scummy and disrobe. I get in the shower and scrubbadub all the important bits. I lather up my hair, rinse, repeat. I condition previously mentioned hair and wait the recommended amount of time (something I never do). I rinse off and reach for my towel. There’s no towel. Uhhh… no robe, no towel, not even an extra washcloth. Ok. Ohhhhh, yes. I remember. JerkFace washed ALL the towels the night before he went out of town. No problem. I’ll just drip on down the hall and get my robe and a nicely fluffed towel.

7:50 AM

I grab my engagement ring, grasping it in my hand vs. putting it on so I don’t get goo on it when I put product in my hair. We had just moved into a beautifully renovated flat in a graystone near Wrigley Field. There were two flats per floor with the common wall being that connecting the bathrooms and laundry rooms. The flat had incredibly finished, original hardwood floors. I start the trek down hallway to the laundry room, dripping all the way and being careful not to slip. I open the door to the laundry room and smell a hint of bleach and fabric softener. This was going to be an amazing day. I brace my hand on the top of the dryer to open the somewhat finicky dryer door. As I finally wrestle the door open I hear the frightening tinkle of metal hitting concrete. I realize, a smidge too late, that I had dropped my engagement ring I had been clasping in my hot little hand. I could still hear it settling on the floor somewhere behind or under the dryer.

8:00 AM

No big deal. I’ll just pull the dryer out, get my ring and still have 30 minutes to do my hair, put on my makeup and get dressed. A little tight, but I can do it! I start to pull the dryer out and realize that it’s attached to the wall. I lean over the back of it best I can and confirm that yes, it is attached via the exhaust hose thingy. Perhaps I can scootch it over at an angle and get to the ring. I get the corner closest to the washing machine moved out about two feet from the wall, but it won’t budge after that. I muster all of my brilliance and decide that if I teeter on the edge of the washing machine, I can probably reach the ring. Am I a problem solver or what?

8:05 AM

As my short little chubby legs are, well, short and chubby, I get a chair to help facilitate my ascent onto the top of the washing machine. I finally manage to wiggle myself up with a new realization of how naked, damp flesh slides on metal. Pretty impressive. I slide over to the edge of the washing machine and start the quiet slide down the backside of the dryer. Hmm. It’s pretty tight back here. Let’s just get the ring and get on with it. Uh. I can’t really bend over. Uhhh. I’m kind of wedged back here. Hmm.

8:10 AM

Alright. Don’t panic. Just get back up on top of the washing machine and get the blasted ring later. It’s not like the cats are going to be able to get at it. Good plan. Uh. Hmm. I can’t get my leg high enough to give me leverage to pull myself up. Let’s see. I make a halfhearted attempt to pull myself up on top of the washing machine but only end up having massive flashbacks from elementary school when everyone was playing on the monkey bars except the smart, funny little fat chicklet. Let’s move on.

8:20 AM

This sucks.

8:30 AM

JerkFace gets back on….what? Friday?

8:45 AM

I’m probably going to miss my interview.

10:00 AM

I’m missing my interview

10:15 AM

Is that the phone ringing? Is that my answering machine picking up? Is that the gallery owner “just checking” on me? ::sigh::

11:30 AM

My cat waltzes into the laundry room to check on the status of my eyeballs. She drools on my head, smirks and runs off.

12:50 PM

I really need to pee.

1:15 PM

This sucks.

2:20 PM

::slam:: Wait. What was that? Was that my neighbor? The neighbor I begrudgingly gave a spare key to? Oh, God. Please let it be him! I start knocking on the wall behind me and yelling at the top of my lungs.

2:30 PM

My neighbor, Saber, knocks on the back door. I continue to scream. I hear the key in the lock and I hear the door creak open. “Green Eyed Girl??”

2:35 PM

Saber is standing in front of the dryer. He is laughing hysterically. I earnestly try to explain why this was not the best time for him to express his amusement. I start to cry. He laughs harder.

2:40 PM

Saber puts a towel on top of the dryer about three inches beyond my reach as he goes to root around for a wrench type of tool so I can loosen the vent hose and he can pull the dryer out a bit more. He’s still laughing hysterically.

2:45 PM

He turns around while I try to nakedly shimmy to the side so I can reach the dryer hose. I get the hose unhooked and Saber pulls the dryer out a bit more. He hands me a step stool, which gives me just enough height to gracefully ::cough cough:: climb on top of the washing machine, awkwardly covering myself the best I could with the towel.

2:50 PM

As Saber reconnects the dryer hose and pushes it back into place, I see my engagement ring glittering on the floor IN FRONT OF the dryer.

Tuesday, 13 years later, 10:45 PM

I can still hear Saber laughing.

Tale Of Idiocy Part I

I had originally posted this on my prior blog. After posting it and still to this day, I have been bombarded with requests for me to detail, yet again, what an idiot I am/was on the sad, sad day I trapped myself behind the dryer...while naked. Yes, it's true. Naked. I have decided to yield to the demand and illustrate what a true and total blockhead I am.

For posterity's sake, here is the original post that led to the aftermath I am about to post...

Tale Of Idiocy

If you know anything about me at all, I'm sure you read the title of this post and assumed it was about someone else. Some poor putz that had somehow come across the misfortune of displaying their stupidity in my general direction.

Unfortunately, you would be incorrect if you made this assumption. That's right. You read me correctly. I. Am. An. Idiot!

Let me count the ways...

Today I was helping to run the booth for my company at an industry expo. The theme was "CASINO", so my job was to build hype for our booth while people spun the wheel to win prizes. This went fine, though we were getting glares from our booth neighbors because we (okay, mostly me) were being so loud and wild that:
a) we were getting all the traffic
b)we were giving splitting headaches to the unlucky peeps parked next to us and
c)are you allowed to have that much fun at a company expo?

We had a line of people pretty much at all times waiting to come play in our booth. This says a lot because our prizes were pretty lame. Keychains, can cozies, travel mugs. I don't think I would stand in line for any of those things unless they were covered in chocolate or lined with money. But alas they were not and surprisingly, people were standing in line.

In the middle of the melee, I took a break to go to the Necessary. This expo was held at the Santa Clara Convention Center here in Silicon Valley. You can imagine how huge Silicon Valley's convention center would need to be, right? Huuu-uuuu-uuuuge. So by the time I found the bathrooms, I was so, er, ready, I was doing the thigh-tight shuffle into the stall. I knew at that moment that the stall was small, but I was so focused on trying not to pee in my pants and subsequently being the booth whose only draw would be "Guess That Smell", that I didn't pay attention to how I got in. This was my first mistake.

So I had checked my shoes for parasitic toilet paper and was ready to make my departure to the sinks and I...couldn't.... get... the...door...open. Ok, no reason to panic. I backed up and tried to straddle the toilet, but there wasn't room on either side for my legs. We are talking smaller than an airplane bathroom here. Alright. I have options. I can try to shimmy under the door (ew), but honestly, I don't think even Jupiter's gravity could help my tummy make that clearance. Hmm. I could try to climb over, but not only did that seem unlikely and unsafe, it also seemed way too Cirque du Soleil for me. Ummmmm. I could bust the door down? Not really a good look for a delicate flower like me. So I decided to just contort my fat around the door. That makes sense, right?

I managed to get a thigh out and while praying that nobody came in and made the supposition that I was a toilet burglar trying to sneak away from my crime, I contorted my tummy around the door. At one point I was a little stuck and finally just pulled the door as hard as I could, pulling the buttons on my blouse so that many of them came unbuttoned.

Unfortunately, because I am either the most unlucky sap on the planet or the Big Man upstairs was feeling frisky, someone came in to the bathroom right about then. Here I am, mildly sweaty and red-faced, with my shirt undone coming out of a stall. Riiiighhhht.

I smiled and buttoned my shirt and quickly washed my hands. As I was scurrying back to the booth, I noticed that there was a very large, full sized bathroom about thirty feet from my booth. Nice.

So all this just makes me fat, right? How does this make me an idiot, you ask?

I'll tell you how. I got home and was telling my darling husband about my horrible experience and as I was saying that I was stuck, he said, "So did you just stand on the toilet so you had clearance to open the door?"

Not only did this never occur to me, it took me a minute to even understand what he was saying! This, my friends, is what makes me an idiot!

This is also further evidence to the fact that men think differently than women. Jerks.

And sadly, while this makes me feel stupid, it does not make me feel nearly as stupid as the time I got caught naked behind my dryer and couldn't get out. But that's a tale of idiocy for another time.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

I Think I'm Getting Dumber....

"Unpossible!" you say. No, no, it's true. Bear with my recap of the conversations that led me to this conclusion and I'm sure you'll agree. It started like this...

Conversation #1

Me: "Honey? Have you seen my glasses? I can't find my
glasses."

Mike: ::typing on his laptop and refusing to make eye
contact::
"No, I haven't. When did you last see them?"

Me: "You're such a wisenheimer. You know I can't see
without my glasses. You're just mean. You never
help me with anything."

Mike: ::still typing, shakes head::
"No, I was asking when the last time was that you
had them."

Me: "Oh. Um, last night?"

Mike: ::typing slower::
"Did you check the couch? Did you check the
nightstand? Did you check the bathroom?"

Me: "Well, no. I pretty much stood here and didn't see
them and I thought you might know where they
are."

Mike: ::putting down the laptop, still not making eye
contact, walks into the bedroom, retrieves glasses
from nightstand, walks back into the living room,
hands glasses to me, picks up laptop, continues
typing::

Me: "Thanks. I knew you knew where they were."

Conversation #2

Me: ::grumbly and starting to get indignant::
"HEY! Employee #1! Where's that thing I asked you to do?"

E#1: ::looking entirely and completely confused::
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Which thing would that be?"

Me: ::scoffing and getting more indignant::
"You know...the thing! The thing! I emailed you and left you a
voicemail! I'm pretty sure we talked about it in the staff
meeting, too."

E#1: "Hmm. Let me check. No voicemail. The only email I have from
you was the one where you were ranting about the fitness teacher
being a jerk because he disrespected you via email but then you
realized you misunderstood his email and were thinking
you probably shouldn't have sent him a reply email calling him
an 'asshat dillhole'. "

Me: "Are you sure? I'm pretty sure I emailed you, called you and
discussed it with you in a meeting."

E#1: "Are you sure it was me? Perhaps it was another employee?"

Me: "No, it was definitely you. Here...I'll show you the email I sent you."
::checking email::
"Ohhhh... I have an email here I sent to myself reminding me to
email you. Sorry"

E#1: ::rolling eyes, smiling smugly and mentally preparing his resume::

Conversation #3

Me: "Honey, I think I have amnesia."

Mike: ::typing on his laptop and refusing to make eye contact::
"You don't have amnesia."

Me: "I'm pretty sure I have some kind of selective amnesia. I'll check
WebMD."

Mike: ::stops typing and looks scared::
"No, please dear God, do not get on WebMD. There's no such thing
as 'selective amnesia'."

Me: ::sneering at his idiocy::
"Oh yeah? Since you have a medical degree from WHERE? If I recall
correctly, there is."

Mike: ::looking up to the heavens, praying for patience::
"WHY do you think you have amnesia?"

Me: "Well, I keep forgetting things and I'm too young to have dementia.
Wait, maybe I have dementia!"

Mike: ::resuming typing::
"You don't have dementia."

Me: "You don't know! If I don't have amnesia and I don't have dementia,
what are you saying? What? You think I'm getting dumber??"

Mike: ::typing::

Me: "Honey?"

Mike: ::typing::

Me: "HEY!"

Mike: ::typing::

So there you have it. I'm clearly getting dumber. The only saving grace is that I'll forget how dumb I am. Just give me a minute...