Bird poo

A few Sundays ago a bird pooped on me. There is a belief out there that this is a sign of good luck. A silver lining for getting shit on by a bird. Awesome. This made me start thinking about all of the other ridiculous "good omens" that people attach to not-so-good things. These myths or old wives' tales or whatever you want to call them had to have started to make people feel better about the bad crap (literally) happening in their lives. Like rain on your wedding day means that you will be rich. Well, that one might actually true because my wedding day was a beautiful sunny day. Not a drop of rain.

So here are some other good luck omens...

1. Bats nesting in your home

• So when you find bats in your home and you want to scream and cry and get treated for rabies (just in case)...comfort yourself with this thought: Wealth is in your future. We found a bat in our home once. I was convinced that I had rabies for at least a week (even though I never felt the bat touch me, I was certain it bit me without me knowing). Wealth never came. The bat must have just been a visitor. Dammit.

2. Meeting a snake

• This is supposed to mean good fortune. Seriously? Someone is totally trying to trick us here. Anything would seem like good fortune after meeting a snake. For instance, if I saw a spider after I encountered a snake, I would think: "At least it wasn't another snake! Gosh, I'm lucky." See what I mean?

3. Putting your clothes on backwards

• It apparently means extreme good fortune. I personally think it means you are either sleep deprived or too drunk. Either way, I think it is actually a sign that you are better off not getting dressed. Just stay naked. And stay where you are.

4. Tingling hands

• This means that money is either coming to you or leaving you. I have had tingling hands before, so I am pretty sure the latter was true for me.

5. Itching ears

• Itching ears is a sign that someone is talking about you. If your left ear itches, someone is saying good things about you and if your right ear itches then someone is saying something bad about you. Take away message for me: spend more time cleaning my right ear so that my left ear is more likely to itch. Sometimes my wisdom frightens me.

 6. Seeing a cow

• This is a sign of fertility and prosperity. I live in a rural area. There are cows everywhere. Come to think of it, I guess people do seem rather fertile here. If you have a teenager, don't live on a farm. If you want a baby, move to a farm. I'm a little disappointed that there wasn't a good omen for something "cow poo" related. By the way, my husband hates it when I say "poo" instead of "poop." We compromise by saying "shit" instead. Thank goodness we are mature enough to know when to compromise.

7. Discovering your initials in a spider web

• This is not bad at all (unless you encounter a scary spider in the web). I think finding your initials in a spider web would be super cool. Of course, I would have to get close enough to a spider web and the only time that happens is when I accidentally walk right through one. So, it is likely that I would destroy my initials before I ever saw them. I wonder if there is an omen for that. There totally should be.

8. Having alligator teeth

• This brings good luck to gamblers in Africa. Ummmm...okay. I am not sure how one acquires alligator teeth, but I am sure the gamblers in Africa have that all sorted out. 

By the way, cats walking into your house is apparently a sign of bad luck. I have three cats who live in my house. They are already in my house and they do, indeed, walk around. Does this mean that I will have three times the bad luck for the rest of my life? Or is this omen strictly for cats who are strangers? Maybe the bird poo will counteract the bad luck. Sweet.

P.S. I found most of the information from the websites below. There are additional omens noted if you are interested in learning more. I kept my list to 8 because both sites noted that 8 is a magically powerful number. My birth date does not add up to 8 (which apparently brings you the best luck in the entire universe) so maybe my list of 8 will work instead.

https://shine.yahoo.com/anderson-cooper/15-signs-good-fortune-115600042.html

http://mail.wofs.com/index.php/wealth-mainmenu-37/540-18-omens-of-good-fortune 

P.P.S. I totally meant to post this two weeks ago, but I have been experiencing an emotional "crisis." By "crisis" I mean that I totally freaked out over something (shocking, I know). Long story short, I am convinced that I poisoned myself, my husband, my animals, and my house. I won't get into the details today, but let's just say that paint was involved. That's what I get for ambitiously taking on a house project.

Lesson learned: I will never try to change anything about my house ever again. Everything will stay just as it is until we move. I'm sure that will be a fantastic selling point.

Second lesson learned: getting shit on by a bird does not bring any good luck at all. Damn liars.

Writing for me (and for the world)

Finding balance might be my greatest challenge in life. I am either running myself ragged or I am lallygagging for hours and hours (sometimes for days). I swing from one extreme to another and that is positively exhausting. Because of a busy time of year with my work combined with some personal busyness (more on that at a later time), I have avoided one of the things that I love the most...writing for fun.

Why is it that I feel guilty when I make time for this? In these past six weeks, I have felt like I have to first finish my work-work and my housework (something that I am not very good at as you can read about here), then exercise for me followed by a walk with my dogs (exercise for them), and finally if there is time (which of course, there never is), I can write for me in complete peace. BUT JUST KIDDING because as soon as I think about writing for me, I think about an approaching deadline for a work project that requires a significant amount of writing. Basically, when I think about writing for me, I think about that not-so-much-fun writing that I should probably be doing instead.

Why do I let myself feel guilty about writing for me? Even if nobody else reads these words (which is a pretty safe bet), I am writing about something important to me...or at the very least, I am writing something about me.  I am creating something for me from something within me. I am writing these words. I am reading these words. I am doing something that I love. God forbid that I do something for me. The world might just stop turning if I do something that doesn't result in a tangible reward like money or muscles or a clean house or a mind-blowing orgasm. (Is an orgasm actually tangible? For men, there is certainly tangible evidence, but what about for women? I would say it absolutely is to the woman who feels it. So, does that mean a female's orgasm is only tangible to the woman who experiences the orgasm? Well, there is my philosophical thought for the day. Just call me Aristotle.)

Writing for me keeps me more centered and a little (just a little) more sane. I mean, can't you tell how centered and sane I am right now? There is so much wisdom and logic pouring out of me as I write this that I wouldn't be surprised if the answer to world peace just flows right out of me. So, why should I feel bad for making time to write for me? I am actually more productive (and a lot more tolerable) when I set aside this time for myself. Not to mention, the amount of money I save on wine because I am less stressed. And most importantly, that mind-blowing orgasm is so much more likely. It is truly amazing what a centered mind can do for your body. Try it. Your mind and body will thank me. Also (and maybe even more importantly than my last point...but only maybe), if writing leads me to the answer to world peace, well it would just be selfish of me not to write. If you look at it that way, I am not just writing for me...I am writing for the world.

So today, I wrote for me (and as we all learned, for the world too). Usually, I would save this post and read and reread and edit and delete and rewrite and repeat until I am ready to publish, which could be tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. But today I wanted to write and I don't want to wait and revisit this post tomorrow because tomorrow I may not feel like I do right now. Before I know it, days, maybe even weeks or months could pass before I come back to this. Once I put something off, even for a day, the procrastination often continues at an exponential rate. Sometimes, so much time passes that I don't ever come back. That's how I operate.

So although it isn't much, I did it. I wrote for me.

Oh, and by the way, the world hasn't stopped turning. Actually, the world is one step closer to peace (thanks to me).

As for the mind-blowing orgasm...well, like any good scientist, I am going to test my hypothesis.

P.S. I came across this quote at a restaurant last night. I want this to be my new mantra for all of the writing in my life.

P.P.S. It is quite possible that the answer to world peace is a mind-blowing orgasm. Another possibility is a centered mind. But one is much more likely to achieve a centered mind after experiencing a mind-blowing orgasm...so really that makes mind-blowing orgasms the answer. I told you the answer would flow right out of me.

Because sometimes you might actually want the "hot seat"

I am totally being tested by this new way of being: "don't get sucked into your thoughts, just be aware, observe, and let it go."  I like to think I am learning a lot and growing from my new favorite book, but I am being challenged.

When I came home a couple of Saturdays ago after yoga, I noticed that our house was pretty cold.  I didn't think anything of it at first because it is not unlike P to open all the windows when the outside temperature hits a whopping 40 degrees.  (With five fur-children, fresh air is absolutely necessary.)  After awhile I couldn't take it anymore and when I suggested that we turn up the heat, P replied with, "I'm working on it."

I'm working on it.

Um.  What is there to work on?  We have a furnace.  When we turn up the thermostat, our furnace kicks on.  Like magic.  Because that's what furnaces do.

P walked downstairs to "work on it."  Whatever "it" was.

I was very confused.  And so, I started firing a million questions because that's what I do when I find myself in a stressful situation.  This has a calming effect on everyone involved, as you can imagine.

Me:  Is something broken?

P:  I don't know yet.

Me:  Well, is our furnace not kicking on at all?

P:  I'm working on it.

Me:  Oookaaay.  So, our furnace is not working. 

P:  We might be out of oil.

Me:  How can we be out of oil?

P:  I saw we were getting low and I was going to call last week.

Me:  But you didn't?

P:  I was going to.

Me:  Why didn't you?

P:  Because I didn't think we needed it yet.

You see, my husband is one of those people who doesn't think he needs to put gas in the car until the light comes on to tell him it's time to fill up.  Why don't homes have lights to alert you when it is time to refuel?  If this exists, we need this.  If this doesn't exist, someone needs to invent this ASAP.  If you are taking this idea and running with it, don't forget who planted this seed in your head (you can email me at mypost30life@gmail.com to learn where you can send me a percentage of your profits).  Seriously, don't be greedy.

And so we spent our weekend in a house that averaged about 59 degrees while the outside temperature was in the 30s (we hit a low point of 57 by the end of the weekend).  If that doesn't sound cold to you, I dare you to live in your house for 48 hours with your inside temperature at 59 degrees.  I promise you, it's colder than you think.

We turned on our oven to warm our hands.  We wore hats and multiple layers.  We built a fire in our fireplace and we lit candles all over the house.

This may sound romantic, but then there was this:  we even lit candles around our toilet in an attempt to warm the toilet seat.  Because when you sat on it, it felt like you were sitting on a giant block of ice.   

It was actually really tricky to sit down without catching your pants on fire.  It was like the weekend challenge.  Every time we finished our business without catching ourselves on fire, we felt an overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment.  You may wonder why we didn't just move the candles before we sat down, and if you are, then you clearly don't understand how lazy we are.  Remember, we are the people who ran out of oil because we didn't call our oil company.  And by the way, my watch is still an hour behind from when we "sprung forward" for Daylight Savings.  Yes, I am that person.

The oil finally came on Monday around 3pm (because clearly our oil company didn't think it was an emergency - or at the very least a top priority - when my husband explained that we didn't have heat for over 48 hours and that I was currently working at home with five fur-children in a freezing cold house - thanks, oil company).  Of course, the heat still didn't kick on because I guess when your house runs out of oil you have to bleed the oil because your pipes fill with air (or something like that).  When the heat came on at last, I think our cats were the happiest of all.

P and I celebrated by cranking the temperature up to 80 and lounging around in our underwear for the rest of the evening.  Because that's what responsible adults do when they have a full oil tank. 

My inner roommate

My inner roommate is totally a sociopath. 

Let me explain.  As I mentioned in my previous post, I am reading an amazing book called The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer.  I love this book so much.  I feel like Mr. Singer is writing directly to me.  He makes happiness and inner peace seem so simple.  I'll tell you the secret.  Are you ready?  Those things that disturb you, all you have to do is let them go.  It's that easy.  Of course, learning how to do this is the real challenge, but it is a challenge I am taking on because I think inner peace sounds pretty awesome.

One chapter in the book is about your inner roommate.  Basically, your inner roommate is that voice you constantly hear in your head.  It's that voice that never shuts up and doesn't always say very nice things (at least mine doesn't).

It makes quick judgements about a situation or a person.  I don't like that.  This is boring.  She just gave me a weird look - what a jerk.  I don't like her.

It nags you and makes you feel guilty when you are trying to relax.  I shouldn't be watching TV.  I have a million things to do.  How can I be so lazy?

It can turn a perfectly lovely moment sour in a blink of an eye.  What a beautiful day.  Oh shit.  How could I have wasted this entire day of sunshine inside?  There will probably never be a day this beautiful again.  What the hell was I thinking?

It interrupts your night out with friends:  Did I turn off my hair straightener?  Oh, God.  My house is going to burn down and all of my pets are going to die and it will be all my fault.  It's always a lot of fun explaining to your friends why you are suddenly grabbing your keys and running out the door. "Sorry guys, but I think my house is on fire."  My friends are now used to this and so their response is usually something like, "Okay, thanks for the wine!  Talk to you tomorrow!"

Does anyone else have an inner roommate that sounds like mine?  I told you.  My inner roommate is a GD sociopath. 

Mr. Singer tells us that the mistake most of us make is that we assume we are that inner voice and so we let it talk us into feeling the way it tells us we should feel.  But that voice is not us.  Rather than allowing ourselves to get caught up in the thought, he tells us that we should simply observe the voice.  In other words, don't let the voice control you.  Be aware of it, but know that you are not the voice.  It is just your inner roommate.

And so this chapter taught me that I am perfectly normal, but my inner roommate is a lunatic.  From now on, I am blaming every bad mood I have, every mean thing I say or do, on my inner roommate.

When I start yelling at P for for leaving his laundry in the washing machine over night (again), I will say, "I'm sorry.  Your forgetfulness really set off my inner roommate."

When I snap at my mom for calling me when I'm getting ready for work, I will say, "Sorry, Mom.  My inner roommate hates interruptions."

When someone catches me rolling my eyes, I will say "It wasn't me.  That just really annoyed my inner roommate." 

I am pretty sure this wasn't the point of the chapter.  I realize that I need to work on observing my inner roommate rather than reacting to it.  But it is liberating to know that the crazy voice inside my head isn't me because that voice can be a total B sometimes.  Right now I am thinking that I should write a thank-you note to Mr. Singer.

 

 

Well, look at that.  I guess that B inside my head can be nice sometimes after all.   

Just call me Mrs. Franco

I am going to get a little deep here...

Although I have always been a thinker, I have been thinking a lot lately about who I am and what I want in life.  Probably because time keeps marching on and I find myself reflecting where I am in life and sometimes I catch myself comparing my life as it is to how I thought it would be.  (That is a huge no-no, by the way.)  For the most part, I feel satisfied and very lucky.  Of course, being happy with what I have would just make life way too simple and easy.  And I am not a simple person.  And as my husband will tell you, I am not an easy person either.

My expectations tend to be very high for a lot of things.  I am a "doing" kind of person.  I keep myself busy by setting new goals and striving to achieve.  Although that's certainly not a bad thing, when I take a closer look at why I do those things, it may be for the wrong reasons.

Achieving and accomplishing makes me feel good.  It gives me a feeling of satisfaction.  I feel successful.  I like myself more when I am successful.

Keeping busy allows me to escape, resist, or ignore things that I don't feel like dealing with in that moment (and by in that moment, I actually mean ever).  When I am DOING, I am too busy to focus on things that cause me worry, pain, stress, or fear.

I have resisted the things that I don't want to face by doing things.  I also do things to define who I am - or more accurately - to define who I think I should be.

Get good grades.

Play this sport.

Go to that college.

Earn this degree.

Run that race.

Take on that project.  And then take on 10 more projects on top of that.

DOING allows me to create my own journey where I am the boss rather than experiencing the journey that is given to me every day.  I choose to drive instead of going along for the ride.

Rather than "doing" all the time, I am making time to process and reflect.  I have also started reading the book, The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer.

This book is incredible.  I am not one who typically reads books about self-discovery, but I thought it was time to revisit my promise for 2014:  To shine.  It is hard to shine when you don't know who the hell you really are and what makes you tick (like really, really tick).  What I do know is that my current life, although it is very nice and I like it a lot, doesn't fill me with the kind of passion and fire that I would like it to.  And I'm not sure if it's my perception that is off or if I am just not living my life the way I was meant to live it.

I mean, maybe I am supposed to be a world traveler backpacking from country to country.  Or maybe I am supposed to be a photographer where "a day at the office" requires me to explore all kinds of magnificent landscapes.  Or maybe I am supposed to be a poet living in England's countryside.  Or maybe I am supposed to be James Franco's wife.

On that (amazingly awesome) note, there is a bottle of wine with my name on it.

Cheers!!!

Brew You

I found a new way to waste hours and hours on a sunny Sunday afternoon.  P and I are in need of a new coffeemaker.  We stopped by our local Bed, Bath, & Beyond and spent a solid 60 minutes checking out their merchandise.  We went back and forth (well, I went back and forth) trying to decide:

Do we want a coffeemaker or should we try an espresso machine?

If we go with a coffeemaker, do we want an automatic drip with a carafe or a single cup machine?

If we go with a single cup machine, do we want a Keurig or a Tassimo?

If we go with a carafe, do we want glass or thermal?

And by the way, I am saying "we" but really, P couldn't care less.  I could tell him we are switching to instant coffee and he would probably go along with it.  (Although even he would probably care a little about that.)

We (aka I) finally decided on a purchase:  an automatic drip coffeemaker with a glass carafe and a built in burr grinder.  Before today, I had no idea what a burr grinder was.  P kept telling me it was a high-end brand.  Clearly, we know nothing about brewing coffee and probably shouldn't be allowed to go coffeemaker shopping.  I know that coffee connoisseurs would scoff at the idea of an automatic drip coffeemaker and even more so at the idea of buying one with a built in grinder, but we decided that convenience was important.  And I think I just proved that we are not coffee connoisseurs. 

When we got home, we were both so excited and all I wanted was a fresh cup of coffee from our new coffeemaker.  You know what it's like when you have something in your head and in that moment that something is the only thing you want in the whole wide world?  Can you tell that I am setting up for a disappointing ending here?  The DAMN coffeemaker wouldn't fit under the cabinets in our quaint 1940s (aka awkwardly-sized) home.

I guess instead of blaming our cute (but still teeny-tiny) house for being too small, I should say that the stupid coffeemaker was freakishly huge.  To be honest, I would have been more upset, but the first thing I read in the manual (before we realized it was too big for our counter) was that damn California warning that states:  "This product contains hazardous, lethal, poisonous lead that will likely result in death and/or birth defects."  Okay, the warning may not say that exactly, but that is the gist.  Seriously.  If you don't believe me, just click here.  (I talked about this warning before.)  The size issue gave me an excuse to return the coffeemaker without making a big deal about the warning (which happened a few months ago when P and I purchased a vacuum cleaner).

And so I went on the hunt for a new coffeemaker.  What is the best coffeemaker for the best price?  I spent the rest of my afternoon and evening (until about 10:30pm to be exact) researching coffeemakers and their parts, where they are made, customer reviews, etc., etc., etc.  My head is going to explode.

Finding a BPA-free coffee pot was the least of my worries (although this is where my worries began).  The more I thought about this, I am pretty confident that our current coffeemaker, which we have used for about 8 years now, is probably filled with so much BPA that P and I are permanently poisoned and we will most likely develop every possible disease that can result from BPA toxicity.  I am probably lucky if I live long enough to finish this post.

Awesome.  Now I am scared of my coffeemaker.  What was once the highlight of my morning is now my worst f***ing nightmare.  Never mind the fact that the damage is certainly already done, so why worry now?  But, still.  What if it is that one more sip of BPA-coffee that just makes my organs give out completely?  I am so F***ed.  (I don't know why I keep typing *'s.  You have to know what I am saying, right?  Sorry, if you are offended.  But, if you are offended, aren't you glad that I used the *'s?)

As much as my mind could have spiraled down this path of "What are the signs of BPA poisoning?" instead, I continued my research on finding the perfect coffeemaker for P and I.  My questions went on and on.  Although I did know that we wanted an automatic drip with a carafe, I was still torn between thermal or glass.  I liked the idea of coffee staying warm without a hot plate, but I swear that stainless steel can give coffee a weird taste.  Then, I found a glass-lined thermal option.  WINNER!  

So I thought my job was done, but then I started agonizing over other things like:

Is it okay to purchase a coffeemaker that is made in one part of the world when it is designed in another part of the world?

Is it safe to get a coffeemaker that has an aluminum heating element rather than a copper one?

And what the heck is in the plastic if it isn't BPA?

Do I spend $300 on a coffeemaker (without a grinder) or buy the much more reasonably priced version (also without a grinder)?

And then there was the grinder.  I will spare you the details as this research followed a very similar pattern.  But I will tell you, a burr grinder is not a brand.  You see?  This wasn't a total waste of time.

P should be thanking me for all of my hard work in trying to find a coffeemaker that won't kill us.  As much as it pains me, he talked me into the less expensive option.  So, I will spend countless cups of coffee in my future fretting about the aluminum heating element.  After all my worrying about BPA poisoning, we will probably now both develop Alzheimer's from the mother-loving aluminum heating source.  P, if I get Alzheimer's, I'm blaming you.

But until then, I am stuck with my BPA coffeemaker (which probably also uses aluminum so I am doubly screwed) because Amazon won't ship my purchases for 5 to 8 business days.  Because why would I spend more money on shipping when I wouldn't spend more money for the copper heating element?  That would just be stupid.

And that was my Sunday.

Ugh, I need a cup of coffee. Oh, wait.  F*** me.

I am pretty sure the bubbles are from all the BPA.

Parenthood (a little perspective from a fur mom)

Warning!  You must bring your sense of humor if you plan to read this post.  If you do not have one or temporarily misplaced it, please just hit the back button right now.  Better yet, just close the window and forget your ever saw this.

When you are in your thirties, Facebook can be a strange place.  Although, in all fairness, I did not join Facebook until I was in my thirties, so it is quite possible that Facebook is a strange place no matter how old you are.  I am sure that anyone who has a Facebook account can relate to how their friends' posts often fall under a certain category (e.g., the chronic complainer, the bragger, the know-it-all, etc.). 

Today, I want to talk about that one type of post that increases dramatically when you are in your thirties - the parent posts.  The reality is that many of my thirty-something friends are parents or expecting parents-to-be.  I, too, am a mother - but my five children each have four legs and a tail.  A few days ago, I had a conversation with a good friend (who also has several fur children) about some of the parent posts showing up in our feed lately.  We have a few friends who have been posting things about motherhood that have, quite frankly, terrified us both about the prospect of having human children.  They make motherhood sound like torture with all of their complaints about lack of sleep and non-stop crying, pooping, and throwing up.  Then, they will follow up with pictures and posts about how their babies are the cutest things to ever exist in the universe, which will again be followed by an awful story about how poop exploded from someone's hiney.  (By the way, this is the first time I ever typed the word hiney.)

Then, one of our mom friends posted something about how she totally agrees with the statement that you are not a real parent until you have more than one child.  I am not one to publicly criticize what someone writes, but I have to be honest here, I think that might be one of the most ridiculous things I have ever read/heard in my life.  I mean, I get what she is saying - having more than one child is extremely hard work - especially when both children are under the age of three.  I would never, EVER argue that point.  I cannot imagine how much work that must be.  But come on now, by saying that someone is not real, you are either calling that person fake or imaginary.  As an only child, I can tell you that my parents are quite real.  Although having imaginary parents does sort of sound cool, like your parents are invisible with superhuman powers.  Maybe my friend was making the point that imaginary parents are way more kick ass than real parents and if that was her point, then I'm an asshole.

Anyway, this is how the conversation with my fellow fur-mom friend went (please note that names have been changed as I want to protect her identity from our mom friends):

Nina:  I want to post all the things that parents post but apply it to my dogs.  Like, "Urgent!  All mommys and daddys within 15 miles, what's the best doggie daycare for little Barkley?"

Me:  Well, that's just utilizing your contacts.  You are being a smart and responsible dog mom.

Nina: "And PLEASE - only people with three or more fur babies reply, because otherwise you aren't real parents."

Me:  Absolutely.  No fake dog parents allowed in this conversation.  Their input would be fake input and that would just be rude on their part.

Nina:  "Ugh!  I FINALLY got 8 hours of sleep!  Thank God, Maxwell stopped licking his butt hole all night long and let mommy and daddy catch up on sleep.  We were zombies!"

Me:  Butt hole breath is the worst!

Nina:  And then the next day...  "UGH!  If it's not one, it's the other.  Maxwell finally stopped licking his bum and then Jack starts licking his penis all night!!!  So exhausted today!!!  This mommy needs coffee!!!"

Me:  And now you're dealing with butt hole AND penis breath!  Good thing they are both so freaking adorable!

Nina:  Zing!

Me:  We should share this with the world.  It teaches everyone a valuable lesson.  The world would thank us.

The end.

P.S.  You're welcome, world.

A new kind of weekend

Is it pathetic that on Friday night I went to bed at 8:30?  I tried to read, but I kept falling asleep so I turned the light out around 9 and was asleep by 9:01. (Do you like how I tried to save face by saying that the reason I went to bed so early was to read?  Because going to bed at 8:30 on a Friday is perfectly acceptable if you go to bed with a good book.) 

I know, I know.  I do not have kids, so what is my excuse?  My excuse is I was freaking exhausted! I  found that I am much more productive between the hours of 5:30 and 8am and so I have been getting up super early.  The next thing will be me eating dinner at 4pm.  At Denny's.  Leave me alone.  Friday night was the first night that I got more than 8 hours of sleep in weeks.  It was awesome.  (Mothers of babies, don't read those last two sentences.)  Wait, if there are mothers of babies reading this, you probably already read it.  Sorry, I should have put the warning before those two sentences.

I remember a time when Friday and Saturday nights didn't even begin until 11pm.  That's when all the parties would just be getting started.  It seems crazy, but it was so much fun!  If we were home and in bed by 2:30am, that was standard.  Anything earlier meant that the night was a complete bust, and if we were up until the sun came up, well that was just an amazingly rocking night.  Of course, walking home with the sun up was never that much fun because everyone assumed you were doing the walk of shame because, come on, who else would be dressed in tight black pants, heels, and a sparkly shirt at 6:30 in the morning?  (Perhaps that description fits a few other groups as well, but that's a conversation for another day.)

But here is a life lesson that not everyone knows.  Just because you see college kids walking the streets in their clothes from the night before, does not mean that they just had a night of crazy, drunken, meaningless sex (although it certainly could, because that can happen too...although it NEVER happened to me because I was NOT that kind of girl).  If anyone is reading this who knew me in college, you can shut up right now because my morning walks were HARDLY EVER sex related and they were NEVER EVER meaningless sex related.  I'm just kidding about any walks being sex related because I never had sex in college because I was waiting for marriage.  Just kidding, because I am STILL a virgin.  The only thing my husband and I do is cuddle.  Just kidding again.  My husband and I NEVER cuddle.  Are you confused by what I am and am not kidding about?  Good.  Back to my point: walking home in the morning can simply mean that the party was so good that it didn't end until the sun came up.  The end.  Ignore everything about what may or may not have been true about my college sex life (or lack there of).  You see what I did there? They mystery continues.  

And now what do my 6:30am's look like?  Well, I am sitting on my couch with my cat and I am eating gluten free oatmeal sprinkled with flaxseed and almonds while I am writing a blog that I am pretty sure no one else reads but me. And I probably won't post this until this afternoon so you probably won't even believe me, but I promise you, this part is all true.  This is why I must go to bed at 9am, so that I can use my Saturday and Sunday mornings for this - peace and quiet - just me and my oatmeal, my cat and whatever I choose to work on in these early morning hours.

The reason I don't have time to post now is because I need to get myself to cycle and yoga. Because that's what I do on my weekends now.  Because I am over 30.  And because I love cycle and yoga.  And if I don't eat gluten free, flaxseed, almond oatmeal and if I don't go to cycle and do yoga, well who knows what will happen.  My mind and body will probably explode from all the fat and stress, that's what.  My gluten free oatmeal, cycle, and yoga keep me healthy.  And if I am really lucky, I will see some college kids doing the walk of shame on my way there.

P.S. Because I am finishing this post much later like I said I would, I can tell you that I did not see any walk of shamers.  (Much to my disappointment.)

Happy Birthday, P!

 I am not sure that P has ever really won an argument with me.  I'm quite certain that he has never gotten the last word.  I am the queen of getting the last word.

Well friends, that all changed last weekend.  P and I were celebrating his birthday by drinking some wine (of course, we were - why wouldn't we?).  We were starting to make dinner and P was being a little silly and a little annoying (his trademark behaviors, by the way).  I can't even remember what exactly we were arguing about, but I think it had something to do with water.  Yes, we actually can argue about absolutely anything (or absolutely nothing, depending on how you look at it).  Give us any topic - I dare you - and I am confident we will find a way to be on opposing sides.  And if you think your topic is not debatable, well ha!  You definitely underestimate us.

Anyway, on Saturday night, P said and/or did something that was totally off the wall (as usual) and I made the mistake of trying to provide a rationale explanation for why he just wasn't correct.  P looked at me and said, "Hey, at least you live in America."  And I...had nothing.  I mean, how do you argue that point without sounding like a complete a-hole?  I mean he's right, I do live in America.  All I could do was look at him, stunned.  I had no comeback. 

And that is how, after 11 years, P won his first argument with me.  But I didn't even feel that bad about it.  Come on now, how could I feel bad?  It was P's birthday.  And hey, at least I live in America.

Yes, that's a mocha with an extra shot.  Our mutual love for coffee and chocolate is what keeps our marriage strong (and come to think of it, all that caffeine might have something to do with our quarrelsome ways).

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Just because you are in your thirties does not mean "you know what you want to be when you grow up".  And it definitely doesn't mean that you are who you always wanted to be.  I'm not necessarily talking about your career choice.  I'm talking about the kind of person you are.

There is a reoccurring theme when I write.  A few months ago I tried taking a personality test and I kept getting mixed results.  This reminds me - I need to take that test again.  

When people ask me who I am, I state the roles that I play in my life.  Wife.  Daughter.  Friend.  My profession.  But who am I?  What kind of person am I?  I realized very recently that I don't know.  Seriously, I don't know who I am.  I don't have a freaking clue.  This is terrifying.  Who the hell am I?  What are my passions in life?  What excites me and makes me feel alive?  The fact that I can't answer these questions without pausing to think (and if I am really honest, I am actually racking my brain trying to come up with a good answer), tells me that I either don't pay attention to myself or I haven't found these things in my life yet.  Both of these possibilities are scary.

Maybe I am going through a pre-midlife crisis.  Maybe I am thinking more more deeply because it's a new year or because I recently celebrated a birthday (that's right, I am now one more year deeper into my thirties - before you know it, I will be writing about my post-40 life). 

As terrifying as this all is, I am determined to figure this out.  I'm tired of being who I think others want me to be.  I am tired of doing the things others think I should be doing.  And I'm tired of doing the things that even I think I should be doing.  I have always chosen responsibility over passion and practicality over dreams.  I have lived most of my life in my head - overthinking every aspect.  I want to feel for a change.  I want to do the things that thrill me, bring me happiness and laughter, give me butterflies - the good kind when you are about to experience something amazing.  Why can't that something just be life?  I want to live my life passionately. 

The time is now.  It's time for fresh starts and new beginnings.  It's time to find that spark and Shine. 

Just because you are in your 30s...

Last week, I wrote about how "Just because you are in your thirties does not mean you can't party like a rock star."

Today, I will start my post with this:  Just because you are in your thirties does not mean you know how to clean your house. 

I know that many people don't like to clean and choose not to clean, but I don't believe I am your average person.  My problem is that I really don't know how to clean...without disinfecting.  Here's the real dilemma:  I have a fear of cancer-causing toxic chemicals and so disinfecting safely without (1) contaminating the house with poison that will eventually kill me, my husband, and my pets AND (2) spreading some type of germ, bacteria, or virus all around my house, is quite the challenge.  This is my Everest.  

Let me paint you a picture of me attempting to clean...

One minute I am innocently wiping down the kitchen counter and the next minute I have gone through 10 dishcloths (because using a dishcloth that cleaned one mess would result in contaminating the entire kitchen), my hands are bleeding because I washed them about 45 times over a 15-minute period (an average of about three hand-washings per minute sounds about right - again, all in the name of preventing cross-contamination), and I have gone through about three rolls of paper towel (because all of the dishtowels are soaked from all of my hand-drying and after some serious thought, are my hands actually still clean after I dry them on a dishtowel?  I mean, what if I didn't get all the germs off my hands during my last hand-washing and then I dried my hands on the dishtowel?  Well, I will tell you what - the germs would now be on the dishtowel.  And why, for the love of God, would I dry my clean hands on a contaminated dishtowel?).  If I lost you, please reread because I promise you that I make a thought-provoking point here.

Let me paint a more specific picture for you...

Let's say we just finished making chicken for dinner.  I begin to wipe the counter, but then I realize that raw chicken may have touched the section of the counter I am cleaning.  I pause to think about where I can set the dishcloth without contaminating another surface and then decide that saving the dishcloth is just not worth the risk and I immediately throw the dishcloth in the garbage.  Next, I turn on the faucet to wash my hands and then turn it off - but wait,  I just touched the - ummm - faucet handle?  Well, that just sounds weird.  But, okay, I just now contaminated the mother-loving faucet handle with my hand that possibly touched raw chicken.  Shit.  (Just to clarify, there is a period after the word chicken.  As in: I possibly touched raw chicken.  Not: I possibly touched raw chicken shit.)  Okay, now I need to spray down my sink with that natural stuff that disinfects without using harmful chemicals (don't ask me how this works.  In my mind it just does because the bottle says so.  Please don't give me another thing to obsess about).  By the way, I don't think I have ever used the term "mother-loving" before, but it just felt like a good time to use it.  I'm not really sure if it should be hyphenated or if it is an open or closed compound word.  Oh well.  Forgive me if I used mother-loving (or mother loving or motherloving) incorrectly.  There.  You can't make fun of me now.  

The million dollar question is: how do I get to my disinfecting-but-non-toxic spray without contaminating my cabinet door and the bottle?  I think I got it!  First, I will wash my hands and then I will grab a piece of paper towel - scratch that - I will grab like five pieces because one is just too thin, so will I fold the five pieces of paper towel to make a thick, salmonella-blocking barrier and use this to turn the water off.  Now I throw the contaminated paper towel in the garbage!  Ugh...the garbage is full with all the damn paper towel and dishcloths that were just not worth saving and now the lid won't close.  Well, I can't really worry about that right now, can I?  My hands are clean and I am not touching the filthy, disgusting, contaminated garbage.  Now, I will open the cabinet, grab the spray, and spray, Spray SPRAY!  Spray the sink (inside and all around the perimeter).  Spray the faucet handle.  Spray like there's no tomorrow.  Well, now that I have started, why wouldn't I spray the counter?  Not just the section where the chicken was, but the entire counter because I am sure that raw chicken has touched the other areas at some point and we have probably been living in a salmonella-infested breeding ground for months, maybe even years.  In fact, the salmonella has probably started to multiply and mutate into something much, much worse.  Like some kind of flesh-eating bacteria or that virus from Outbreak.

Before you know it, I am out of dishcloths, paper towel, hand soap, and disinfecting-but-non-toxic spray.  My hands are bleeding profusely and to add insult to injury (literally), I have nothing left that I can use to wipe the blood.  I am utterly exhausted after the two hours I spent cleaning my kitchen (in actuality, I spent two hours disinfecting one small corner of my kitchen).  I am disgusted by all of the life-threatening filth that remains.  I will never eat anything that is made in my kitchen again.

If you think that my cleaning issues only involve the kitchen, you give me way too much credit.  You should see me freak out about spreading dirt all over my house when I attempt to wash the floors (and trying to decide what's worse: spreading the dirt from the dining room to the living room or from the living room to the dining room) or contaminating my house with the cord of my vacuum cleaner.  You know, all power cords contain lead that can cause cancer, reproductive harm, and/or birth defects.  If you don't believe me, just ask California.  

And don't even get me started on trying to clean the bathroom.  That is a story for another time and could quite possibly be the reason my husband will divorce me one day.

Please do not judge my pink kitchen.  I like to think of it as vintage.  Plus, maybe somebody will see this picture and offer me a free kitchen makeover.  (P.S. I added the grit with some photo editing.  My kitchen isn't quite that gritty in real life.  Most of the grit that is there - like the salmonella grit - is microscopic and would not show up on this photograph.  There's your science lesson for the day.)

Shine on...

There is a lot of talk about selecting your word for the new year (check out this or this or this).  Instead of a list of resolutions, the idea is to select one word and to let this word inspire how you live throughout the year.  I sort of made resolutions for the new year here.  Well, keeping these "resolutions" in mind, I have come up with my word for 2014.

shine 

When I think of the word shine, I think of light.  Did you ever meet someone who lights up a room?  I'm not talking about the person who does anything and everything to be the center of attention.  It is important not to equate shine with "look at me" behavior.  I'm talking about the light that shines from within. 

Some people have a special kind of light that makes everyone around them feel special.  This internal light shines brighter than any external show we can put on for others.  We see this light in a person's eyes and in their smile.  We hear this light in their words and in their laughter.  We feel this light in their kindness.  To truly shine is simply a way of living each and every day.  It is a way of being.

In a world that can get dark at times, I want to shine this kind of light.  How can I do this?  This is how I hope to start...

Shine with genuine happiness for others and happiness with myself.

Shine with gratitude for what I have.

Shine with possibility for what might be.

Shine with action in doing the things that I love.

Shine with curiosity in trying new things.
 
Shine with love.

Shine with laughter.

Shine with hope.

Shine in the moment I have right now.

Shine so bright that the light remains even after the moment is gone. 

shine  

2014...There's nowhere to go but up

Happy 2014!!!

Just because you are in your thirties does not mean you can't party like a rock star.  It's been a long time since P and I shared a crazy night.  One of us is always the driver, which means one of us is always the sober one when we are out with our friends.  But when you plan ahead to sleep over at your friend's house, the possibilities are just endless.  Well, we ended 2013 and began 2014 in a way that made up for any lame nights we shared over the past year (which includes last New Year's Eve).  Two days later and I am still fighting a headache and the occasional wave of nausea.  P and I don't really party anymore, but when we do, it's a doozy.  New Year's Eve was no exception.

There is no better way to begin a new year than drinking delicious wine with your loved one and friends.  That is exactly what we did and it was just perfect.

Of course, when you are chatting and laughing and throwing back the wine and then someone breaks out the whiskey, it is easy to lose track of how much you have had to drink.  There were a lot of tipsy people at our little gathering and things took a bit of an unexpected turn.  Let's just say the night ended with someone peeing in a litter box.  That someone was not me, nor was it the cat.

After the unnamed culprit finished their business, they immediately removed the litter from the box and said, "Well, 2014 can only get better from here."  Well played, my friend. Well played.

P.S. - I assure you that this is not at all the typical behavior of my friends.  If you are deeply disgusted by this story, I apologize.  As another friend pointed out, the situation could have been much worse (like doing #2 in the litter box or peeing behind the couch).  Plus, the person did clean the litter box and, let's be honest, no one likes that job (so someone sort of made out on this ordeal).  But it goes to show, just when you think those wild and crazy drunken moments are years behind you, someone whips out the unexpected (literally) and surprises you.

P.P.S. - For those who may be put off by this, try to find the silver lining in this post.  Rather than judge, just laugh and love.  And remember, we can only go up from here.