Road Trip: The Ultimate Personality Test

I feel like you can tell a lot about a person based on their driving style on long road trips. For instance, I tend to be cautious when I drive. I drive above the speed limit, but only by a few miles. I “stay in the left lane except for passing”, merge well before the lane is closed ahead, and obey pretty much all the other traffic laws like the good little rule follower that I am.

 And it is precisely this reason that makes me crazy and stressed when I drive in other states where these maniacs, who CLEARLY got their license out of a cracker jack box, are driving 90 miles per hour, switching lanes willy nilly without so much as a thought of using their directional signal, and waiting until the eleventh hour to jump in that merge lane, even though they knew it was coming just like all the rest of us who saw the LED sign a mile ago. People who love structure and rules will NEVER be happy on a road trip, mostly because there are always going to be those psychopaths in those 4 wheeled tin cans who think that speed limits are merely just suggestions and that the 8 inches of space in front of you is perfectly fine for them to slide on in there. Not to mention that these same sociopaths seem to have the exact same travel schedule that we do. (Lucky for us!)

 My husband, on the other hand, does NOT like to let anyone get ahead of him. He takes it quite personally if someone even thinks about it. And while I really don’t like to let those idiots in front of me, the ones who drive 80 to get ahead of someone after the ‘left lane closed in one mile, merge right” sign, my husband will make it his personal life quest to hang those morons out to dry. Not that I don’t think they deserve it. (Hey, I said I was cautious, not a pushover!) But he will ride that bumper of the car in front of us, swearing fealty to some unbeknownst to me traffic god to uphold the good name of all the fellow non-idiot travelers and serve that cold dish of justice.

It was during one of these road trips that I found out that my passenger side brakes DO NOT work.

My blood pressure elevation DOES work. Really well.

And I am pretty sure that there is some unwritten law that you HAVE to argue with your spouse about something on a road trip. Probably after a day of driving when you’re cranky, tired, and holding in a fart that you’re almost certain would probably kill an ox. Road trips only promote a bonding experience because there’s nowhere to freaking go. You’re stuck together in this rolling metal rectangle. Mile after mile. State after state. Highway after highway.

This year I also found out that my family can annoy me by ignoring me. Yes, the thing that I pray for any other time in my life, irks the hell out of me on a road trip. Mostly because I get carsick and can’t do anything other than, well, drive, without getting nauseous. So when the kids both have their headphones on watching tv (lucky) and the husband is snoring in the passenger seat (luckier), and I’m over here trying to twiddle my thumbs and steer at the same time, it apparently pushes my buttons. (See, who says you can’t learn new things about yourself?) I’m pretty sure that this was a culmination of my intense hatred for the Carolinas (Why must you only have two damned lanes? WHY?), a numb ass cheek (Thanks a lot stupid sciatica.), and everyone else getting to ignore the rolling miles while I am over here trying to make them go away as fast as possible.

Back to my original statement though. I truly feel like your personality is manifested in your driving style. My husband has always been more of a risk taking, speak his mind kind of person. I’ve always tried to just keep my head down, follow rules, and avoid confrontation if at all possible. So when he drives, he’s more comfortable with risk taking (“Drive it like you stole it!”) and I’m more confident in my stay out of the line of fire of the imbeciles driving 90. (Quick sidebar: Wy does every state ignore their own speed limits? Then they’re pissed at you for only going 5 miles over the speed limit when you should be driving at least 20 mph over like they want to, if only you weren’t in their way. I mean the nerve of you, following posted speed limit laws. The nerve!)

 Now that we have spent all that quality time together, we need a break. Let’s go back to our real life where we are too busy to talk to each other because we are working, educating, and running to kids sporting events. Talk to you at the next vacation.

 

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Fatigue: Now in New Designer Packaging!

        I read something that said the average adult ends up making  35,000 decisions every day. Apparently this leads to "decision fatigue" where you can end up making poor decisions  at the end of the day. Like eating 12 tacos, standing over the sink, with crazy eyes and a bottle of tequila. Or investing in life jackets for ducks.

        Decision fatigue? You think?!?!?!

        I'm still flabbergasted that humans have that many things available to decide on on every day. I mean, yeah,  we decide what to wear, how to style our hair, what to eat for breakfast, which route to drive to work....okay, I think I'm starting to see it now. Still...35,000 decisions in one day is a lot. I mean A LOT. And you're telling me that we do this every day? And our heads haven't exploded like a Looney Tunes character yet? Amazing.

        Just thinking about making that many decisions is making me tired. (Oh wait, actually, I think that's yesterday's tired. My bad.)

My brain every day. (Image credit: Dreamstime)

        Do you guys remember, back in the good old day, when it was just regular tired? Now we have exotic types of tired....decision fatigue, mental exhaustion, emotionally worn out, burnt out, over-worked, energy sapped, bone weary, and overwhelmed. We are stressed, depressed, pressed, over accessed, and a hot mess. We bitch about being tired every day but have too many things to get done to be able to catch up on our sleep. Not to mention the whole "busy brain" syndrome going on with the 35,000 daily decisions. 

        Not only do I need a vacation, it seems like my brain needs one too. Where is "Bachelor in Paradise" when you need it? Just give me some brainless television to plant myself in front of on so that I can unwind and give my brain time to recuperate from being the CEO of DecisionCorp. It's a super thankless job that gives zero time off and has shitty benefits, yet my brain shows up every day to get the job done. I guess I should be thankful that she was willing to step up since I have an already overflowing plate myself.

        To think, I was sitting here feeling pretty sorry for myself for having a little bit of a writer's block tonight when in reality it was probably my brain going on strike for the night. She's wearing her comfiest pj's, has a glass of wine in hand and started to binge Netflix's trashiest soap opera-esque reality tv. She's off the clock and you can't make her work any more unpaid overtime this week. Not only has she made 35,000 decisions per day, she' been doing it for multiple days in a row. She'd do some math and figure out that staggering number for you if it didn't count as work and take her attention off the boob tube. Since it does, I guess you're on your own.

So try not to hurt yourself if you have to make a decision without your brain's guidance. Maybe ask for the heart's help if you can. Or at the very least, check with your spleen. He seems like a logical dude.

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I Was Woefully Unprepared for Children

            I always thought that I had a pretty good handle on this whole parenting gig. It’s only been recently that I realized how much I was actually just winging it. Yup, just making this shit up as I went along. Basically I was just giving it my all and hoping for the best.

           Honestly, I think that all parenting is probably 50% parent-like behavior and 50% pretending like you have an actual clue as to what you are doing. The whole phrase “Fake it til you make it” was most likely started by a parent who was trying to sound authoritative while scolding their toddler for something that they aren’t even sure is a scoldable offense.

<Checks playbook>

Right, right….justified penalty for throwing dirty underwear in sibling’s face. Ten-minute time out.

            Even when we finally get one kid’s worth of experience under our belt, the next one comes along and has completely different issues. Yeah, this one isn’t a picky eater but they have attention problems. The first two slept like champs but that third one acts like sleep is completely offensive to their person. Parenting is like a board game made up by a 6 year old who’s just throwing random rules and regulations out willy nilly. Just when you think you have a handle on the game, it changes. Lose a turn. Roll 6 to start. Do not pass go. (But definitely pay $200 to buy one of those insanely expensive lifesaving butt rocking baby holding chair things. Because even we can smell how much we need a shower here.)

           This is why veteran parents with multiple children always look like they’ve been put through the wringer. They’re fighting multiple battles with multiple children on multiple different fronts. You can read all the parenting books that you want and it’s never going to prepare you for the uniquely specific way that your children are going to torture you. And yes, they WILL torture you. Lost sleep, stress, worrying, contests of wills, tears, and tantrums (mostly theirs but occasionally yours) will be enough to keep you second guessing yourself at every turn. This is why moms lie in bed at night wondering if they’ve done the right thing (probably), if they’re causing their child to need therapy later in life (yes), if they’re really teaching them life lessons (also yes), and if it’s possible to ever have a worry-free night of sleep ever again (unequivocally no).

            It’s a marvel though, just  amazing the personalities that these little beings carry inside them from such a small age. Each one unique. Each one special. Each one with one mom hot button they can push to get her from 0 to 60 in 3 seconds flat. I’m pretty sure that this is a mini course they take in the womb. There they are, just floating around in all their amniotic glory, bored out of their skull. What a perfect time to brush up on some newborn skills. Let’s see: Using the same cry to mean multiple things to confuse parents 101, how to sleep in one hour increments for beginners, finding the quickest route to piss your parents off for dummies…sign me up! So they sleep deprive us, make us their slaves for the first few years, and basically wrap us around their finger from that first milky eyed newborn glance.

<Checks playbook>

“Nope, that sounds about right.”

            And it’s downhill from there. Because not only are we getting on the job parenting training, but everyone always wants to offer (usually unsolicited) advice at our obvious parental ineptitude. (Eye roll) Yet no one is immune to the unsolicited advice because us parents have been there in the trenches. We know. And we just want to tell you what worked for us in the hopes that maybe our kids aren’t the only weirdos who had to have a mam pacifier chilled in the fridge for 10 minutes before being rocked to bed while being sung ACDC’s “Back in Black”. We want you to know that the parent network is out there, ready to lend you all the useless tips that only probably only work on our specific blend of DNA, though we keep hoping some of these tips and tricks may be able to be passed onto other frustrated, bleary eyed parents.

                I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re not alone. We’re all out here screwing our kids up too, even though we have the best of intentions. On the upside, at least we know that they’ll be able to find friends to commiserate about when they need to vent about their wacko parents who never understood them at all. You know, just like we did with our own parents.

 

             

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My Name is Bohnnd, Jaimz Bohnnd

     Parenting is hard. I mean sure, it is “super rewarding” (if you can survive the first 18 years) but it’s definitely not an easy feat raising kids. The first trial comes before they even arrive: picking a name.

    Now, there are several hurdles to successfully completing this process. The first is both parents being able to agree on one name. If you want to know how many people traumatized you over the course of your life, this is when you find out.

Him: Catherine?

Her: Ugh, I went to school with a Catherine and she was a real witch. I’m pretty sure they based that movie “Mean Girls” on her. What about Nathaniel?

Him: Remember the Uncle that I had that always used to get drunk and pass out in snowbanks at the Christmas party? His name was Nathaniel. What about Allison?

Her: No, I dated an Allison in college.

Him: Realllyyy??? Why haven’t I heard about this before now?

    The second is the commonality factor. This is how comfortable you are with naming your child something “common”. This wasn’t too big of a problem until the last few decades. Now parents seem determined to give their kids “unique” names, names that “stand out in the crowd”. The irony of this is that no kid has EVER wanted to stand out in a crowd. In fact, they pray for the obscurity to blend in and just be another faceless, ordinary kid. They would rather NOT have that spot light on them, thank you very much. (Has anyone done a study on the correlation of the rising anxiety in our children to parents naming their kids after random nouns? Hmmm…..) Parents who give their kids unique names usually end up with things like “Moon Goddess” or “Rocket Pilot” or “Apple”. (Yeah, I’m looking at you Gwyneth.)

    The third obstacle is the spelling factor. This is when parents want to give their kids a normal name, but then un-normal it by spelling it uniquely. This, too, falls into the same category for kids. Not only do they not want to be unique, you are now condemning them to a life full of correcting people on how to pronounce their name. So someone who likes the name Michael but thinks that’s too traditional may choose to spell it Mykel. Jason becomes Jayceson. Emily becomes Emmalee. And that’s if you don’t have someone trying to be clever about their naming. Like: SSSST which is pronounced Forrest. (Insert eye roll here) Or JKMNO, pronounced “Noelle”. (Eye roll so large my eyes almost fell out)

    There’s also only a 43% chance that people will spell their name correctly, resulting in a lifetime of frustration and correction. I speak from experience. I have spent my entire life telling people how to spell my name. It was even spelled wrong in one of my school yearbooks. Do you know how sad it is when your own school can’t even spell your name? And my name isn’t even that odd, it just has the lesser common of the 2 spellings for my name. TWO CHOICES and people still can’t get it right. And you expect them to pick from one of the 42 new combinations that 2022 offers? Good luck with that.

    The last hurdle is the bullying factor. It’s tragic that we even have to think about this, honestly. This is when you try to think of all the ways that your kids can be picked on or bullied by their name. Is it bully-proof? As much as you want to think that kids are innocent angels sent from the heavens above (and sometimes they are) the cold, hard reality is that kids can be evil assholes and torment you with enough force that the trauma of picking on your last name in middle school can linger well into your 40’s and cause flashbacks of a time when you were targeted for none other than your name. Something you didn’t even have a voice in so why it’s fodder for humiliation is beyond me. But the scars that those little jerks cause are no less painful because of how little control you had over choosing your moniker. (Not that that statement was specific enough to indicate that I have personal experience or anything.)

    While trying to bully proof your baby name, it may be difficult to put yourself in this juvenile mindset, you know, being a super mature adult and all. In order to properly prepare yourself for the cruelty only youth can perpetuate, I suggest watching films such as the aforementioned Mean Girls, Heathers, or Carrie. And lest you think that the female persuasion are the only ones with a dominant bullying gene, I present to you Back to the Future, the Karate Kid, and of course, the ever popular freckled face ginger from “A Christmas Story”. (These movies, when watched in succession, may also be a very good deterrent for having children at all, so please view in moderation.)

    If you are in the process of percolating new life (or married to the percolator), I hope you have found these tips helpful. But if not, just please, for the love of all that's Holy, don't name your kid after fruit. 

I’m Definitely Living in a Haunted House

 

For years, judging by the amount of laundry I do every week, I have been convinced that there are people living here that hide when I’m around. And now I am certain that we have an extra housemate, a ghost. Granted he may not be adding to my copious amounts of laundry (being transparent and all) but he’s definitely not house trained. I have, however, learned his name. It’s “NotMe”.

In my defense, I haven’t actually seen this ghastly ghosty. He seems to have shown himself to my kids and my husband though, since they talk about him constantly.

“Who left the basement light on?”

“NotMe!”

“Who left the milk on the counter?”

“NotMe!”

“Ewww, gross, who didn’t flush this?!?!?”

“NotMe!”

As you can see, for an incorporeal being, he manages to create a lot of mayhem up in here. I’m not sure that we really needed any more chaos, but apparently NotMe seems to disagree. Everywhere I turn, NotMe is leaving toys on the floor, clothes on the couch, or glasses on the table. I guess I kind of understand where he’s coming from. I mean, if I was dead and stuck living with a bunch of flesh and blood beings that taunted me with their whole “living and breathing” talents, I’d probably cause some ruckus too. Especially if my bored existence wasn’t letting me go into the light CarolAnn.

Another thing that I have learned about him is that he must be an old ghost who’s been around awhile because he knows everything. Just last night I asked my family, “Does anyone know where the marker for the dry erase calendar went?”

Immediately I was told, “NotMe!”  

“Who knows what happened to the bag of chips that was in the cupboard yesterday?”

“NotMe!”

Now, this poses a problem because he not only hasn’t shown himself to me, but I highly doubt that he is able to verbally communicate with us, being an apparition and all. (At least I am sincerely hoping that he cannot communicate. That would seriously up the creepiness factor and make me want to run screaming from our house in a hurry.)

This also makes me wonder how they know that NotMe knows everything. Or are they just blaming this poor ghoul who cannot defend himself? Maybe he’s not causing pandemonium out of boredom, maybe it’s anger. Perhaps he’s irate that he is the one taking the fall for their actions. Or maybe he is the one responsible and he is thinking, “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for you meddling kids!”

Personally, I can only hope that if he can manifest himself long enough to create havoc in my house by taking items, turning on lights, and leaving clothing all over the place, that he can be taught to vacuum. Or at least put the dishes in the dishwasher. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

We’re Going to a Pity Party, So Put on Your Boo Hoo Shoes

         Have you ever showed up to a pity party empty handed? Awkwardly standing there like, “Whoops, I don’t have any empathy, commiseration, or sympathy, but how about this half-chewed piece of righteous indignation? Will that work?”

        And sadly, it does. Because America’s toxic trait is that we allow ourselves to accept whatever emotional scraps we are given, and we are taught to do so gratefully. This is why we grow up to be half functioning adults with unhealthy familial and romantic relationships.

        You’d think that knowing your Achilles heel would help you overcome it, but if that’s the case, it hasn’t quite made it to my cranium yet. I know that my toxic trait is putting myself out there in relationships, far many times after the rejections and denials should have warned me off, but somehow, I keep repeating the behavior. It’s almost like whoever came up with the old adage “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks” might have actually spoken from experience or something. Imagine that. Or maybe we are all just one big Pavlonian experiment and some scientist is writing down the results of our conditioned responses. Probably some alien type dude who’s studying us like interesting insects thus making all those “abducted and probed” stories seem realllyyy uncomfortable right about now.

        Uh, no thanks, I have hit my quota of conspiracy theories right now, but maybe next decade, mm kay?

        I’m not completely hopeless though. I HAVE learned a thing or two as I’ve gotten older. With age comes backpain…oh and wisdom too. (Hopefully more wisdom than back pain, but life isn’t always fair so quit yer belly achin’.) It only takes half as many attempts on my part before I realize that this is a waste of time and energy. It used to take much longer. Yeah, I’m pretty smart now donch’ya know? (I’m really hoping that you read that with the Canadian accent that it was written with.)

        We can only hope that we continue to learn from our mistakes and grow as human beings. And if that doesn’t work…. this is why God created alcohol. Sure, it might not solve all your problems, but it sure makes karaoke more interesting and how is that not a win-win in anyone’s book? And if alcohol (or God) aren’t your thing and you still need proof that life isn’t all that bad, I give you exhibit B: cake. Cake is willing to solve all the same problems as alcohol, but sadly she lacks that whole “lost inhibition” thing that makes karaoke so much extra.

        I feel like we’ve gotten a little off track here. (I blame the cake. It ALWAYS gets me off track.)

        So back to our sad, emotionally stunted existence. Gosh, that sounds WAY worse than I thought. Let’s try that again.

        So back to our Twisted Sister “We’re Not Going to Take it” kick ass mentality. Just because we have been taught to accept the emotional crumbs left to us, it doesn’t mean we can’t ask for an entire piece of the emotional pie. We deserve it! We are (mostly) kind, hardworking, loyal and only cuss a little. (Unless you cuss a lot, then ignore that part.) Don’t we think it’s about time that we stop giving all of ourselves to people who can’t, or won’t, invest the same time and effort into us? Don’t our kids deserve to see us break that cycle of unhealthy emotional codependence where we justify the bad actions of those who are supposed to be our support system? Don’t we ALL deserve to stand on this soap box and have ourselves a 5 minute melt down rant like healthy red blooded humans with actual thoughts and feelings of our own? If you answered yes to any of these questions, sit back down and mind your own damn business.

        Ha. Kidding.

        Really though, we need to stop going to all these pity parties empty handed. If you can’t bring a good case of compassion, at least bring a case of beer. Or maybe a few bottles of Rose. Whatever you do, just don’t forget the karaoke machine.

 

    ꭉꭉ I’mmmmmmm evverrrrryyyyyyy wooooomaaaaannnnnnnn. <hiccup> It’s all in meeeeeeeeee. ꭉꭉ

               

 

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Let Me Introduce You to My Electronic Sanity

 Anyone else all about that screenshot life? I swear, I don’t even know how I used to function without this handy little trick. It was like living in the dark ages and then a light shone down on the little square device in my hand. A voice gently whispered, “Take a screen shot dumbass, you know you’re going to forget otherwise.”

                The thing is, that little voice is right. I AM going to forget it. Give me four and a half seconds and I’m liable to forget my name, staring at the phone in my hand like a caveman that just discovered fire. “Ooh, pretty colors.” I used to think it was age that was starting to creep up on me and then I realized that it’s just storage issues. No one is clearing the cookies from my brain browser to free up space. No one is doing a disk defrag (wow, dating myself a little there, huh?) on my brain’s hard drive. Without antivirus software, I don’t even know if there’s some malware floating around up there. (It would explain why I have a BTS song stuck on repeat in my head when I don’t even listen to pop music.) So, a screenshot reminds me of that weird article I saw online that I wanted to tell my husband about. Or the online shopping that I was doing while laying in bed, sans checkbook. (It would be a little creepy to sleep with a pencil and my checkbook under my pillow, right? Right right, I knew that. I was just checking if YOU knew that. Good job!) It’ll even help me remember that song that I liked when I have time to have a coherent thought. Basically, my phone is my brain's portable hard drive.

                Even though I’ve always been into new tech, especially fun gadgets, I can see that I rely on my phone a lot more than I used to. Maybe if they didn’t make it so conveniently contain my email, calendar, camera, music, banking, alarm clock, exercise tracker, and shopping all in one place, I might be able to resist that temptation. But smartphones have become the shopping malls of technology. Why use multiple gizmos when you can do one stop shopping with your smartphone? I have lists of books that I want to read, Christmas gift ideas for the family, a to-do list, and even ideas for the blog. Sadly, a lot of these don't make the transition to the phone because they are lost as “driving thoughts”. What are those you ask? Driving thoughts are what you think of while driving yet manage to automatically forget as soon as you step out of the car. Some of my best ideas were probably driving thoughts but now they are lost to the great void. It’s like the car sucks all the thoughts back up, not allowing them to escape their sacred space. I need a Knight Rider car (For you youngsters, think Lightning McQueen) that I could talk to and have them take dictation. “Kit, write this down: A desk chair with one of those old school desk type trays that you can fold over to write on attached on it, like a rolling school desk. Also, please check if that already exists.”

                I joke about that, but I don’t think that we are that far off from our own real-life version of Knight Rider cars. I saw that they now have some cars with Alexa in them. I don’t know quite how those work, but I do know that if I ever get my hands on one of those cars, I’d be tickled pink. That would be the cat’s pajamas. The bee’s knees even. Well, gee, that would be super swell. But seriously, do you even know how much easier THAT would make my life? Especially if I could get car Alexa to speak to house Alexa AND somehow get all of them to be bff’s with Siri. It would be like living my best tech life. The next time that I would have one of those fantastic driving ideas I could tell Alexa to do…uh, well, something techy and awesome that would remind me to follow through with said life changing idea that I came up with. (I wonder if Alexa actually drives the car too….hmmm.)

                If life was REALLY awesome, I’d get a droid Alexa who would talk to car Alexa, house Alexa, AND they would all be besties with Siri. Then I would really be in control of my life. Well, they would. I’d live my own life vicariously through me....through them through me? Wait, this is getting a little confusing. Well, I guess until Alexa comes in a Jetson’s (OMG, ANOTHER reference that shows how ancient I am?) sized robot maid that will clean, cook, and keep my hectic schedule in line for me, I guess I’ll just have to do it myself. I’m pretty sure that I’m going to get fired though. I haven’t had great  attention to detail and I’m pretty sure that I’ve been caught playing games on my phone.

 

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Let’s Ignore How Pigmentally Challenged I Am

 

I was just fortunate to have a week off from work where I did nothing more strenuous than deciding where we wanted to order dinner from while I lazed idly in the pool. While in theory that sounds great, I’m a special sort of Caucasian known as “pasty”, so any time spent in the sun is really noticeable. And believe me, people always notice.

“Someone got some sun this weekend.” Yes Sharon, occasionally I DO interact with the outdoors. I mean, it offends my introvert sensibilities, but somehow, I manage.

“Oh, you got some color!” This always seems to be said with some sort of praising voice, like when you ask your dog, “Who’s a good boy?” As if exposing yourself to harmful ultraviolet rays is some sort of accomplishment. I mean, I get it, I’m WHITE. I couldn’t even be the poster child for my race because my skin is too pale. And sure, once the weather turns cold and we stop spending so much time outdoors, my skin color will return to its natural state of being one shade shy of translucent. But why do people always tell me that I need some color? Did I miss something somewhere? Was I absent for the assembly on “How to Get Skin Cancer Like a Pro”? They literally can’t make an SPF strong enough for this transparent skin tone I’m sporting, but I’m supposed to purposefully fry myself in the name of getting some color? What am I missing here?

I also don’t understand when people tell me that I need some color because I’m “too white”. Is that an insult? I’m not sure. Do I say thank you for complimenting this beautiful Caspar coat I am wearing? Or walk away outraged at your uncouth behavior? I just need to know how I’m supposed to react to this information. Am I surprised by my pigment challenged skin suit? What’s my motivation here? I need to understand the character before I can fully become her.

Too white? I don’t get it. Do people tell African American people they are “too black”? “Girl, you need some whiteness, you’re too black.”

Do people tell Latinos that their mocha color needs some cream? (Why do I want coffee now?)

Should I tell my Indian friends that they’re just “too brown”.  “Pavani, your coloring is way too autumnal. You need to balance yourself with winter colors to brighten up that dull skin.”

Not to mention that every time I turn around, I hear the term “white privilege”. How am I supposed to be privileged if I’m a candy cane instead of my natural wintery hue? Because let’s face it, I’m probably going to be red more often than tan. This bleached bone tone that I’m rocking can go from zero to lobster in 12.5 minutes of direct UV exposure. I can double that time if I use copious amounts of sunscreen, reapplying every 97 seconds.

The sad part is these people are still telling me that I need color. And this is tan me! I have to take my watch off to show them the pale strip of normal whiteness against the rest of arm that has been kissed by that big yellow ball in the sky. Yeah, who feels foolish now Janet? I’m SUPER tan, right? (Well, tan adjacent maybe.)

Lest you think I am jumping on the “I need something to be outraged about all the time or I am not happy” bandwagon, I’m not. It doesn’t make me mad. It’s just baffling to me. I am just trying to understand when getting melanoma became our life’s goal. Why can’t I just rock my white self and be good with that? I mean, sure, my veins POP against my super ashen skin, bringing that “old lady je ne sais quoi” look to the table, but wait, where was I going with this?

So the next time you see my marshmallow self walking by you, please hold your applause. I’ll have you know that I had nothing to do with this bleached flour hue. It’s all my genetics fault.

 

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We Need an Updated Guide to Anniversary Gift Giving

             A few weeks ago, I was pondering what to get my husband for our upcoming wedding anniversary. Technically our gift to each other was two blissful days away without our angsty, whiny fruit of our loins. That in itself was a gift more priceless than gold, yet not really “wrappable”. Besides, this one was kind of a “milestone” at fifteen years. So I looked up the traditional gift guide for suggestions.

                For any of you who may have been born in the last 30 years or so and have no idea what I am talking about, the traditional gift guide was a list of suggested gifts by anniversary order. It’s annual until the 15^th year and then it skips to every 5 years, probably because they know there comes a point when you’ve just been married “a long time”. Unfortunately, I didn’t find it really helpful with things such as paper, cotton, leather, fruit and flowers, wood, iron, wool/ copper, bronze, pottery, tin/aluminum, steel, silk, lace, ivory, crystal, and china comprising the first 20 years on the list.

                What the actual hell?

                Who made up this list? I feel like it could have been a woman, except that I have yet to ever met a female who thinks, “Yes, I do believe that wool items are what I desire for my gift. Bring them henceforth.” On the other hand, it couldn’t have been compiled by a man either because every year would be the same gift. And they would insist that it be unwrapped. Wink, wink.

Not to mention, how do you decide what to buy for some of these things?

Paper: “Sweetie, I got you a case of toilet paper. Yeah, 3 ply. Next time you have tacos from that food truck you’ll be wiping like a king. Only the best for my guy!”

Tin/aluminum: “Hey babe, I got you this aluminum foil. Yeah,  I got the 200 square feet. Who’s your Daddy?”

China: “Darling, here is some china that I picked out without any of your input so that I could surprise you with dishes that will only be used at Christmas until they’re so old that you worry about it breaking and it forever collects dust in the china cabinet.”

Lace: “Babe, I got this teeny tiny lace nightgown for you…No, you’re right, this is a gift for me. (But you’ll still wear it right?”)

                Lest you become discouraged though, I DID find a “modern” version of the list with such fabulous suggestions as clocks, electrical appliances, pen and pencil sets, furs, furniture, and musical instruments.

Again, I ask, who oversaw this list? I have never, not once, thought to myself, “Self, do you know what we are missing in our life? A musical instrument. It’s too bad that it’s not my 24^th wedding anniversary so that I can get myself a sweet didgeridoo from the love of my life!” I have never wondered, “Why don’t I ever get gifted with a clock? It would really help to know what time it is to have a clock every 2 feet in my house. Yeah, I actually do own a watch, what are you getting at?”

I think that if I was in charge of this list, I would put fun or useful items on it. If you’re celebrating your wedding anniversary, do you want to do that with pottery? Or do you want a spa day? Do you want crystal or do you want to be able to eat a personal size chocolate cake without sharing? They don’t even need to be purchased items. If your marriage has children, maybe give Mom an entire 15 minutes to eat a hot meal and use the bathroom without sticky fingers reaching under the door. Give Dad an hour to poop while reading the newspaper without nagging. Allow your fashion tragic spouse an outing (to the backyard) in an outfit of their choosing, with no input from you. Tape their ideal weight onto the scale and encourage them to check their weight multiple times over the course of the day. See, sometimes it’s the small things in life that make us happy.

                In the end I just got him smart technology which probably didn’t exist when either the traditional or modern lists were produced. I don’t know what category that would fit under, but it wasn’t crystal or watches. Or a crystal watch. Or a watch crystal. Or watching Crystal get a crystal watch. But it was at least 100 times better than a sharp stick in the eye.

 

 

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What I’ll Miss About the Pandemic

 

              Now that the vaccine for ‘Rona is rolling out, we are moving towards some semblance of normalcy. Don’t get me wrong, this is technically amazing progress. I admit, however, that there are things that I’ll miss having lived through my first (and hopefully last!) pandemic.

             The first thing that I will miss are the masks. I KNOW! I was totally surprised myself. At the beginning, it was so strange and abnormal to wear a face covering. It was hot and itchy and wrong. Until we went 18 months in my house without a single creeping cruddy, drippy nosed, hacking, sneezy child. Eighteen. Months. This is the healthiest my family has ever been in fact. I’m fairly certain that we may be bionic by now. I mean, that’s some sort of miracle right there. I have NEVER had an 18 month stretch of non-illness in my house since the first progeny was popped out. I AM sad for the cough drop industry though. I think that we may have been single handedly keeping them afloat for the last two decades.

 In addition to the health benefits, masks also hid my face. Pre-pandemic I had gotten fabulously awesome at learning not to say what I was thinking. My face, however, had a learning curve and wasn’t quite there yet. The masks covered (pun intended) that issue beautifully. Now I’m not sure I can go back to full time masklessness, vaccine or not. I am going to have to re-train my face to hopefully not show downright incredulity at people’s stupidity. My only saving grace is that I know, from the number of videos I’ve seen recently, that I am not alone in this. The “can’t control what my face does when you speak” group is a large one. We are many. We are fierce. But we are also damn expressive unfortunately.

Also, it’s extremely obvious when you whisper, “What the actual f*ck?” without a mask on. Whereas whispering that with a mask on is only problematic if someone is super close to you. (Which, hello?!? Pandemic! Please maintain six feet social distance at all times. Even once the pandemic is 1,000% over.)

Well, I guess it might also be problematic if you’re only able to do a loud stage whisper.

But I digress.

The second thing that I am going to miss about the pandemic is the built-in excuse to be antisocial. All of us introverts just had an eighteen-month vacation from social obligations. And it was wonderful…. I mean, it was terrible. Yes, sadly, we were forced to stay in and decompress. Become one with the sofa. Binge books, Netflix, and bread baking. Learn a new hobby. Snuggle with our kids. Have family game nights. Enjoy our homes. Yes, it was a frightfully horrid ordeal that we would never want to repeat…. more than once a month. Ok, ok, twice a month. But I draw a hard line there! Yes, that line stops at three times a month for sure.

Pre-pandemic I had socialized enough that I was (mostly) not awkward anymore. Notice I said mostly. I am too clunky to ever be 100% graceful, though I do occasionally manage an entire function without one single uncomfortable moment. Well, make that past tense. Apparently, the year and a half hibernation has reset my social skills to their default setting. Which is only weird if you’re one of the unlucky ones who invited me to your post pandemic event. (By the way, sorry sis. I’ll probably be better by the Christmas party.) If you did/do, you will be the lucky winner of one inelegant, dorky, book loving, antisocial mom who hasn’t gotten enough sleep in 23 years. I hold my humor as my shield AND my sword, but my dark and twisty sense of humor sometimes offends the normal people who don’t have coffee for blood and song lyrics on a non-stop loop in their brains. My sarcasm is a warm blanket that I wrap around me and I often have inappropriate words fall out of my mouth.

But once you get past all that, I’m quite a delight!

So if you manage to see me out in public with a naked face, and it has one of its usual “OH MY GOD, I CAN’T MAKE THIS SHIT UP” looks, it’s not you. Unless there is literally no one else around. Then it probably IS you. And in that case, I’m sorry for what my face is saying.

 

 

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