My DST Discombobulation

I stared anxiously at the bus stop through the front kitchen window this morning, contemplating one simple thing: what the heck time is it?

For a solid five minutes, I debated with myself. Fall back, spring forward. Right? Wait, am I right?

I inspected the microwave and stove clocks. Both read nearly 9am.
(We lost power last week. Did I reset the time correctly?)

I studied my wristwatch. Analog shows almost 9am. Digital, 8am.
(Ah. This is where reading the instructions on synchronizing time would have been useful.)

I referenced the grandfather clock on the living room wall. 12:20. (Did I add AA batteries to the grocery list?)

I checked the Droid. (What am I talking about? I hate this phone. I can't trust this piece of crap.)

I continued to doubt myself until, finally, I saw little munchkins meandering toward the bus stop. Phew. Fall back. Definitely fall back.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've become useless before my morning coffee.

Bah Humbug, Or Something Like That

I would like to post the following sign around my neighborhood:

Dear Sh!thead who dumped my entire bowl of candy into his pillow case on Halloween, please trick-or-treat at my house again next year. I have a surprise for you.

(It's not cursing if you use punctuation in place of letters.)

Maybe it was the afternoon I spent at John Stewart's Rally to Restore Sanity (or Stephen Colbert's Rally to Keep Fear Alive, depending on which way you swing), but I've decided that I'm definitely pro-signage and/or homemade t-shirt. In fact, I'm thinking of carrying a few signs of my own, picketer-style, during trick-or-treat next year. Here are some of my ideas:

Promiscuous is not a costume.

Or, for the little ones:

Slow down, you greedy little bastard. The candy isn't going anywhere.

Before you yell at me for cursing (twice), just breathe. Of course I'm not talking about your kid. I'm sure your kid was smartly dressed and polite.

I'm neurotic today because...

...despite rallying with Team Sanity a day earlier, I nearly lost my marbles dealing with the hundred or so trick-or-treaters that bombarded my neighborhood. That is, until we found the house dishing out adult treats. Grand marnier, anyone?

I'm Calling Out Crazy

When I ask for 'extra cheese, please', that means I would like more cheese, please, not for you to sprinkle the same amount of cheese more slowly. In case you haven't noticed, I'm white. Pasty, in fact. And if there is one thing white, pasty people like, it's cheese. It goes with our whine. I mean, wine.

I strongly believe in mental health days. I think they should be worked into benefit packages separately from vacation and sick days. Additionally, you should not have to schedule them or give notice when you decide to take one. If I spill my coffee in my lap on the way to work, I want to turn the buggy around and go back to bed. If I want Quizno's for lunch and drive all the way there to find out they've closed down, I should be able to call it a day and go home. If I randomly get cursed out via voicemail for reasons unbeknownst to me, I don't want to play anymore. I should have the freedom to take my ball and go home.

I should probably be kept away from small children today. Or anything fragile. Or anyone remotely chipper.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm hungry and sleep deprived, 'nough said.

What Happens In Vegas (I Barely Remember)

Five blog posts in September. I'm ashamed of myself. I blame it on Vegas. From now on, I'm blaming everything on Vegas because that place is frickin' nuts.

So, flying across country takes a long time. Were you aware that there is absolutely nothing to look at between here and Nevada? Middle America is pretty much a series of green squares and brown circles. It's a good thing I brought my Netflix for the plane ride. Of the three movies I brought to watch, I randomly chose a flick that--unbeknownst to me--shamelessly displayed Christina Ricci's plump white breasts within the first five minutes. In retrospect, this was probably an appropriate precursor for Vegas, but at the time I blushed and slammed shut the computer screen.

Pay attention to movie ratings when intended for semi-public viewing. Lesson learned.

Speaking of breast-eses, I tweaked some nipples in Sin City. Yeah, I did. They were huge and concrete and bolted to the wall. It. Was. Awesome.

I also slept a total of five hours, give or take a nap, the entire four day trip. That was partly because no one in Vegas sleeps and partly because of Jill's snoring...but I can't blog about that or she's likely to write a scathing response about how I'm quite possibly the most difficult person, like, ever.

("Stop rushing me! I'm on vacation!"
"Yes, but it takes you for-freaking-ever to get ready!")

I should've blogged the day we returned because at this point it's all pretty much a blur of flashing lights and ding!ding!ding!'s. I know somewhere along the way we had a singing bathroom attendant. I wanted to be her friend. She sang the Happy Pee song and it made me smile as I hovered. Yes, I hovered. And walked. A lot. I'm not sure, even two weeks later, whether my feet will ever recover. My blisters had blisters had blisters.

Forsake style for comfort. Lesson learned.

I discovered something about myself in Vegas. I do not like to lose money. I don't like it one little bit. The morning of our second day, I escaped the sound of the lumberjack to grab some coffee. I naively thought I could sneak down through the casino to the Starbucks in my sweatpants without being detected by anyone. What a sweet, silly, small town girl I am. No one in the casino had even retired for the evening. Not only were the women still dressed to the nines, nearly everyone still had a cocktail in their hand. Nonetheless, I grabbed my coffee and poked around the casino. When I stumbled across a Sex and the City slot machine, I thought, cool, I'll kill an hour or two until I can wakey-wakey you-know-who without her killing me. So, I inserted a $20 bill--it was the only denomination I had in my wallet--and approximately 30 seconds later, it was gone. Gone, I say! I was hoping to at least grab a free beer, but no!

30 seconds, twenty dollars, no beer. Lesson learned.

Everything else that happened in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Well, okay, I'll share this one last pearl with you: "Ayyy ay ay, mami. I'ma workeen weeth ten eeenches!" Oh, dear sweet Mexican nudey card flipper, you will always hold a special place in my heart.

I'm neurotic today because...
...like the diligent student I am, I used my backpack as carry-on luggage so I could complete work during flight. Consequently, I was punished by the casino gods and somewhere between here and Las Vegas Boulevard lies my copy of Mountains Beyond Mountains, complete with presentation notes sure to earn someone an A.
No work on vacation. Lesson learned.

The Grotto for Feminine Rumination

Check out my lunchtime find: Mommy's Time Out Pinot Grigio. Brilliant! I don't care if it tastes like mud, that label makes me happy. I don't even know if the bottle will fit into the she-cave's mini-fridge, but I bought it anyway. (Don't question why I was at the liquor store over lunch, mkay?)

I love my she-cave (otherwise known as the loft above the master bedroom). It's what I imagine most of you had as a college dorm, but more mature. In which case, maybe I should refer to it as the Grotto for Feminine Rumination. The GFR, if you will. It contains within three walls and a railing, nearly everything that makes me happy. The mini-fridge stocked with Amstel Light and/or Sam Adams Seasonal. The life sized cardboard cutout of Forrest Griffin. The collection of concert memorabilia and albums. The comfy oversized chair positioned at just the right angle to the television so as to avoid window glare. The [dusty] exercise equipment. The bookshelf lined with biology textbooks. The laptop/second monitor setup that allows me to be social and work.

Did I say more mature?

It is unfortunate that in recent weeks I've been forced to abandon the GFR. By the end of a typical weekday, I have only enough energy to make it up the first flight of stairs and into my bed. It is in light of my lunchtime discovery, however, that I've penciled into the pocket calendar some weekend GFR time. Well, that and Netflix may soon send Guido to repossess the unwatched discs I've had sitting on my desk for the past month.

I'm neurotic today because...
...in lieu of quality GFR time, I've created a makeshift lunchtime she-cave in the back of my Murano. Please note: the upside to never cleaning out the back of your SUV is that you have everything you need to make yourself comfortable in emergencies and/or moments of Please-Just-Leave-Me-The-Hell-Alone. Don't worry about the odd stares of passersby. They're just jealous they didn't think of it. Or so I tell myself. (Don't judge--I breathe toenail dust for a living.)

Sunny Day, Chasing the Clouds Away

Today's blog is brought to you by the letters I S F and E.

I'm so friggin' exhausted. My schedule was not meant to be done by one person. Or three, for that matter. However, I can't in good conscience complain. We all know by now that I function better at the speed of chaos. There are times, though, when I suspect my mission to out-wonder Wonder Woman will bite me in the arse.

What to do? I've been afflicted with SARs my entire adult life. No, not Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome. I wish. I Suck At Relationships. I'd like to have a successful relationship. I'd also like to have a money tree, but that doesn't seem likely either.

While I'm at it, I'd also like to come up with a smashing segue into my theory on online dating...but I can't seem to get anything I want today. Instead, I'm just gonna run my neuroses up the flag pole and see who salutes them.

If someone posts pictures on a dating website and they don't show teeth in any of them, there is a high probability they have jacked up teeth. Or possibly missing teeth. If they list themselves as 5'10", they are most definitely 5'7". The rule of three inches applies whenever measurements and men are concerned, so keep that in mind. If all their pictures are taken from across the room, be concerned. Be very concerned. If they IM you and almost immediately make reference to their nymphomaniac ex-girlfriend, they are a definite 'no'. Nymphomania should never be discussed within five minutes of 'Hi, I liked your profile'. If they list their last book read as 'The Last Song' by Nicholas Sparks, they are lying. No man has read that book. At least no single-man-looking-for-single-woman man.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I mistakenly thought I'd have time to sit and eat dinner tonight, and as a result, I was ten minutes late picking up Jacob from soccer practice. Which led to tears. Which led to guilt. Which led to, well, this.

Go Take Your Stool Softener, You Crotchety Old Lady

There are several places I must frequent that I simply despise with a fiery passion.

Namely, the grocery store. It is not fair, Gucci Giant, to ask me whether $254.98 is 'okay' when I swipe my bank card, when I really have no choice in the matter whatsoever. I need to eat, and you happen to be on my way home from work. So until I can answer 'no' and enter a more appropriate amount, do not ask me. I don't like to be taunted over my produce.

Secondly, I loathe the gas station. I feel ethically compelled to use a gas station with no known ties to shifty politicians and/or one that has not totally obliterated an ecosystem. Therein lies my first issue. My slightly bigger problem with the gas station is that I don't really feel like I get anything for my $55/tank. Yeah, sure, it fuels my car...for the drive to work, school, soccer, guitar and playdates. Thanks so much, really. I'd rather put the $55/week towards a chauffeur.

Last, but certainly not least, is the Target Pharmacy. There is so much about the Target Pharmacy that irks me. Why is the staff so angry? Why do they shout the names of my medications across the counter so loudly that people in the electronics department now know what I'm taking? Why am I nearly in fisticuffs over the lack of crowd control every time I go?

I'm neurotic today because...
...an old lady snapped at me in the cough medicine aisle at Target because I passed by her cart without notifying her. While I cannot mimic her tone, I believe her exact words were, 'You could've just said excuse me and I would've moved it'. And here I thought I was being polite, not interrupting her search for stool softener.

My Education Is Ruining Everything

Perhaps microbiology is not the best field for someone with my, shall we say, idiosyncrasies.

I've become a borderline obsessive hand washer. I can't get the visual of the tapeworm anal escape out of my head. I recite the stages of inflammation at night instead of counting sheep. I doodle cell anatomy. And even more annoying than all of that, I've become an opportunistic information sharer.


Recently, a coworker was reviewing laboratory results from a wound culture and commented, "I wonder if they really test all these antibiotics for susceptibility". I eagerly replied with a detailed explanation of in vitro testing for antibiotic susceptibility/resistance, complete with procedural techniques and zone of inhibition interpretation.

In retrospect, I think it was a rhetorical question, and I'm a wannabe know-it-all ass.

I had an exam today in my Chronic and Communicable Disease class--which is, for the record, an upper level biology class. I clarify that fact because I'm going to tell you something ridiculous-slash-obnoxious now. I completed the exam in roughly 15.3 minutes and earned 100 out of 101 possible points. Was I pleased? Nope. Only I would be frustrated because the exam was too easy (not to mention I missed that one point).

I'm neurotic today (and for the past two weeks) because...
...I don't know nearly enough to act like a know-it-all. I need to go watch Jeopardy with my father to be reminded of who really wears the brains in this family.

Vocabulary for Witty Banter 101

I've been staring at a blank page for two weeks. Can you believe I have nothing remotely clever to say? For reasons unbeknownst to me, I'm in a bit of a funk. Melancholic, if you will.

Melancholy is one of my favorite words, by the way. I also enjoy archipelago and polydactyly. You should know this if we're going to be friends. I highly encourage their use in our witty banter.

School started a few weeks ago, and something strange happened...I didn't experience my typical Hooray-I-Get-To-Use-My-Backpack euphoria. (Euphoria: another good word. Add that to the list you're keeping.) Yes, I prepared my colored file folders and loaded my pencil pouch with trusty #2's. I even went so far as to add a little flair to the backpack. Still, nada in the excitement department.

My classes aren't helping the situation. We spent three hours on advance directives in my first Biomedical Ethics class. The thought of talking about death and dying for another three hours in the second week induced a migrane on the way to class. I literally drove all the way to campus, lost vision in my left eye, and then made a u-turn back home. My Chronic and Communicable Disease lecture is a little less painful, but not by much. The professor is one of these gotta-be-funny-to-keep-the-kids-entertained guys, and it really pushes my buttons sometimes. I prefer dry and informational. This is a biology class, after all. Isn't dry and boring what we signed up for? The highlight of the week was when I learned that tape worms will crawl out of an infected child's anus at night if you shine a flashlight up there. You could also just apply tape across the area overnight and retrieve them in the morning, stuck to the adhesive.

In a related matter, my diet has improved since lecture began.

I'm neurotic today because...
...producing this blog was more arduous than birthing my children. (Arduous. Add it.)

My Red Flag, Literally

I think, generally speaking, I keep my crazy in check. At the very least, I'm harmless to others.

Still, there are moments that make me stop and think who-ho-hoa, Staub. You may need medicated. For instance, my Netflix account. I love Netflix. I should...we spend a lot of time together. I think we've developed an open, honest relationship. It asks me what I'm looking for, eagerly delivers what I want, and then tenderly invites feedback via a simple five star rating system. (If I could apply this concept to actual relationships, things would be so different.)

There are times, though, when I think we might be getting too close. I'm not sure I can handle Netflix's level of honesty. I realize the intention is good, but the recommended genres have bestowed one too many who-ho-hoa! moments upon me. For example, yesterday I wanted to update my queue to include more of my new favorite genre: foreign movies. Because I realize every relationship is a little give and take, I did what Netflix requested and rated all the movies I've recently watched. Dotingly, Netflix directed me to the 'Movies You'll Love' tab.

Critically Acclaimed Foreign Dramas.

Sweet!

Quirky Dysfunctional Family TV Shows.

Mmkay. Dysfunctional is a little harsh, but okay.

Visually Striking Cerebral Movies Based on Real Life.

Cerebral. I dig it. Thumbs up.

Dark Independent Movies About Marriage.

Uh, yikes.

Dark Dysfunctional-Family TV Comedies.

There are those two D words again. Red flag.

As it turns out, it's not Netflix, it's me. I know, I couldn't believe it either. It's true though. I started paying more attention to the advertisements that line the margins of my email and facebook accounts. Counceling. Psychology. Medicated. These are words I've seen more than once. Just as I stood on the edge of the deep end, ready to take the plunge, the advertisement gods sent me an ad that brought me back to reality: Self Publish Your Book. Phew. If nothing else, I'm validated in my Become A Famous Writer, Move To New York And Live In A Trendy Loft aspiration.

I'm neurotic today because...

...just to be sure I don't totally lose my marbles, I've added 'This Emotional Life' to the top of my Netflix queue. This gripping documentary apparently 'examines the biological basis of happiness, the role of relationships and the ways in which we can cope with negative emotions'. Ah, another uplifting Friday movie night.

Normal Being A Relative Term, Of Course

With no valid excuse for staying in bed, it was back to normalcy for me today.

Constant reminders that back to school season is in full swing have--much to my chagrin--driven home the fact that all my summer awesomeness is coming to an end. No more concerts eagerly scribed on the calendar. No more impromptu salsa dancing. No day trips to fun cities. It seems that I'm left to live vicariously through the ladies of Sex & the City...minus sex, minus Manhattan.

Which reminds me, a few days ago I was rummaging through the bargain bins at Borders Book Store and I stumbled upon an answer to the question women have been asking themselves for decades, 'What the hell is wrong with men?!'. Nestled between the Travel Guide to Kazakhstan and How to Land Your Dream Job were at least two perfectly practical resources for my mentally challenged gender counterpart. I'll admit that Laura Schlessinger might not be my primary resource if I were a man, but I do give her bonus points for an excellent title. However, my male friends, why are you not utilizing 'Finding the Boyfriend Within'?! Those 159 pages might be the missing link between you and me. I could be yours! And for only $3.99, the John F. Kennedy, Jr. look-a-like can tell you how! If that doesn't clear the bargain bin, I don't know what will.

So, yeah, back to normal around here.

In unrelated news, I picked up the P90Xing where I left off--legs and back. I thought I had sufficiently recovered from the Kidney Fiasco, but it is crystal clear to me now that I have not. I'm currently hobbling around like a newborn foal standing up for the first time, knobby knees and all.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've contacted Google to filter the Why-Do-You-Hate-Men emails out of my inbox. For the record, I don't hate men. I just think they're really really dumb.

Ah, Hells Bells

Guess what $3 (in cup holder change) and an hour of your time at GBMC can get you. No, not one of those oh-so-delicious chicken patties with cheese they serve in the cafeteria. At least not today.

Today, my $3 (in cup holder change) and hour of time got me:

• A lunch date with my hunky urologist...why someone so beautiful would dedicate his life to ureters and ED, I will never understand.
• An autosomal recessive genetic disorder...although, I think Dr. SchpHunk is grasping at straws with this one.
• An unlimited supply of medication to make me pee 27 times a day for the rest of my life.
• My constipation pointed out to me on x-ray. Just what I wanted Dr. H-H-Hunky to know...that I haven't pooped in four days (damn narcotics).

On a brighter note, Dr. McHunk-Hunk did tell me that my abs look fabulous on CT scan. Yeah, P90X, YEAH!

I'm neurotic today because...
...I actually owed $4, but could only scrounge up $3 (in cup holder change). The attendant had mercy on my poor stone-riddled soul and let it slide (she also loved the handful of nickels and dimes)...but I can't help but wonder what my last $1(of cup holder change)'s worth of bullet points would've been. Next time I'm counting the pennies.

My 7mm Ticket To Fame

Daytime television sucks. As if enduring mind-numbing flank pain isn't bad enough, I'm stuck with the likes of Jerry Springer for entertainment. I can't believe this idiot has been on television for 20 years. Apparently, a bunch of rednecks ripping their mother/sister/cousin's hair out never gets old.

I'm in day number four of my kidney stone bed rest, and my crazy meter is in the red zone. Maybe I'm just a little scarred from being the ER department freak show Wednesday night. I guess everyone has their special talent...mine, apparently, is forming and passing kidney stones the size of boulders. I'm not kidding when I tell you the nurse called half the ER staff into my room to take a peak into my specimen jar. The physician treating me simply raised his eyebrows and declared, 'impressive!'. Even the CT tech asked, 'Are you the patient who passed the really big kidney stone?' Relating my face to the mass floating in my urine jar is not really the impression I'd like to leave the good folks at GBMC. Gross, I know, but true.

I've lost three days to Dilaudid. I'm not going to lie, being semi-comatose was a welcomed change to wanting to die. But now that I'm coming out of it, I've turned into a big whiny baby. I don't want to be a big whiny baby...it's just that I don't feel well enough to do anything, but laying in bed is giving me bleacher butt or something. Not to mention, I've been nearly 3 weeks pasta-free, I've missed 4 days of my p90x workout and now I'm alone for the weekend. Wah! Wah! Wah! God, I'm annoying myself, I can't imagine how you feel about me.

Now about this television situation...what the crap is up with Big Brother? I must sound like a bright shining ray of sunshine compared to those sobbing drama queens. Good Lord. And who is watching all these judge shows? Last I knew, Judge Judy had that market cornered. Oh, and the soap operas! I lol'd when I saw that Hope was alive again on Days of Our Lives, and Sami's son was now 18 years old. I've decided I should star in a soap opera...they never die and they don't age.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm through season one of my Sex and the City weekend marathon and I'm still a whiny baby. I may need to call in reinforcements.

Better Late Than Never, I Always Say

My recent negligence of the blog might give you the impression that I have been less neurotic lately.

Not so, silly rabbit.

I barely emerged from my concert coma last Monday before I was back at it again on Friday. If ever you have the occasion to hear live music, I recommend you go. And if the band you're planning to hear is The Arcade Fire, you do whatever it takes to go...even if it means you drive two hours to get your priced-below-face-value-front-row pit tickets. And if you have seen said rock show four days prior, you will likely be the coolest person in the front row.

I'm convinced only good things can happen when Samantha and I attend concerts together. I thought for a long time that it was because of her lucky red underwear, but she informed me that they perished several concerts ago. I am led to believe, then, that some cosmic force wants us to be there, together. Not only did we score discounted pit tickets, we had an unusually nice young man share his front row spot with us (and go fetch us some water, too). By the end of the night, we shook hands with Regine, got sweated on by Win, and caught a drum stick that flew into the front row during the final song of the encore. And that's on top of the fact that Britt locked eyes with me during the opening set. I swear, he recognized me from our first encounter in DC. Instead of being the babbling fool I was then, I just stood there like a deer in headlights, not sure whether to look away, smile or give him my best come hither stare. Next time, I swear, I'm going to do something memorable. Let's just hope it's good memorable...I am slowly losing my spunk.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I was interrupted mid-blog by a very rude kidney stone, preventing me from publishing in a timely manner. I know, I'm upset about it too.

Philthadelphia

An abridged transcript from Monday's field trip to Philth--I mean, Philadelphia:

Well that's a nice skyline!
Oh. Ummm. That's a lot of litter.
Will my car even fit down that street?
Seriously, Sam, look at the trash!
Mm mm mm, cheese steak.
Soo...only four hours until the show starts. What was the plan again?
Look! More garbage lined streets.
Well, that looks nice...let's walk there.
Blech! What's that smell?
Oh, okay Philthy...picturesque bridge overlooking the highway. Exceptional graffiti, really.
$15 for parking? Hells to the no.
What are the chances we'll get jacked if we park in this neighborhood?
Well hello there, Britt. I was thinking I'd hyphenate: Daniel-Staub.
Arcade Fire: That. Was. AWESOME.
We are so going again on Friday.
I don't mean to go on about it, but good lord, the trash!
How do I get out of this god-forsaken town?


I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm worried the awesomeness of my Philthadelphia trip won't translate in the abridged version of the story, but I can't elaborate...I'm still in a concert coma.

The #1 Reason I'm Not In Bed Right Now

I'm a list maker. To-do. What Not To-Do. Pro/Con. Agenda. Grocery. Bucket. You get the idea. I thought since I've been away from the blog for a few days, I'd let you know what's been on my mind in a nice, concise set of lists.

Top 5 New York City Inadequacies:
5. Lunch fare available at 10am.
4. My own personal GPS-driven 'You Are Here' indicator on all city bus, subway, and museum maps. I know the Man is watching me, so he might as well make himself useful.
3. Beverage vendors mid-Central Park.
2. Proper breast support for the local women. Unless, of course, floppy breasts are the new black and I haven't received the memo yet.
1. Cab drivers that make me feel safe.

Top 5 Reasons You Should Go to College When You're Young:
5. The ability to retain what you read the first time you read it, not the fifth time.
4. You can still get away with asking your parents for lunch money.
3. You're likely to have more in common with your classmates than the instructor.
2. You will graduate before your children do.
1. Your student loans will be paid off before you retire. Or die.

Top 5 "Manly" Things I Am Capable Of Doing, I Just Don't Want To:
5. Deal in any capacity with a rodent or rodent-like invader of my home.
4. Connect the TV-Cable-DVD-Wii wires to make it all functional.
3. Understand anything automotive.
2. Belch/release audible flatulence in public.
1. Grow a mustache.

In a related matter, I also have an affinity for countdowns:
27 hours until I'm reunited with Britt at the Spoon/Arcade Fire show.
14 days until David Gray/Ray Lamontagne.
3.5 weeks until I can use my backpack again.
2.25 months until Vegas, baby.





I'm neurotic today because...
....5. I'm 10 days pasta-free. 4. I'm still P90X-ing with a bum shoulder and two defective knees/calf muscles. 3. I want nothing more than to spend a week alone with my children. 2. It's Sunday evening, the only time in the week worse than Monday morning. 1. I'm addicted to my Netflix 'Watch Instantly' queue.

All Signs Point To Dementia

Over the course of the past few months, my stupidity level has been off the charts. At least I hope it's stupidity, and not early onset dementia.

On more than one occasion, I have peed in the dark and turned the light on as I left the bathroom. At no point as I sat on the toilet or washed my hands after, did I realize I was in the dark. It was only when I flipped the switch and the room lit up that the lightbulb above my head also illuminated. Only, unlike a cartoon character, I didn't have a brilliant idea. I just realized I'm a dummy. Apparently, the bathroom is an abyss where my intellect goes to die. I've also, on more than one occasion, blown dry half my head of hair and put away the hairdryer...only to realize that the other half is still soaking wet. At these moments, all I can do is shake my half-styled head of hair in amazement.

This weekend all the planets aligned, allowing me to have off work, arrange a dog sitter, and be gifted a free place to stay in Ocean City for a few days. (Thank you to everyone who made that happen.) Even with a seemingly flawless plan, I managed a few moments of what-the-heck-was-I-thinking. First, I had no idea the Bay Bridge was a toll road. Yes, I drove over the death trap several times in my life, but obviously had no recollection of paying to do so. Luckily, I keep emergency change in the car. I'm sure the toll operator didn't mind at all accepting a handful of nickels and dimes as payment. She probably gets that all the time. Or so I'm telling myself.

As everyone living in the greater northeast is aware, we've had record setting heat the past few weeks. I can't conceive of going without the use of air conditioning. I hate the heat with a fiery passion (literally). If I could construct an air conditioned bubble to transport me from the office to my car to my home, I would. Yes, it's that serious. So imagine my panic when mid-way through my drive to the beach I was not cooling off, despite the A/C blowing full blast. Frantically, I adjusted the temperature and direction of the vents. No dice. Unbelievable, I thought. My A/C decides now, of all times, to malfunction. As it turns out, at some point in my heat-induced spaz attack, I bumped the seat heater. Yep, that's right. I drove 4 hours with a heated seat, and couldn't for the life of me figure out why I couldn't cool down.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've stocked up on word searches, 2000 piece puzzles, and sodoku in hope of reversing the effects of what I fear is a serious loss of gray matter.

Bring It

Sometimes I get bored with life in suburbia and I'm forced to do something to keep things interesting.

One day a few years ago, it occurred to me that I had no bad habits. I'm not a smoker. Not a drunk. No drugs...not even the marijuana. Nope, never. Not even once in college. Mostly because I'm a 33 year old commuter student. But still. That was the day I decided to take up drinking coffee. I know. Caffeine! What an animal, I was.

Yesterday I decided that I'm not challenging myself enough. I need to do something to really push myself to the brink, to see how much I can handle. Enough lollygagging already! After a productive brainstorming session, I've come up with something that will require all the mental and physical self-control I can muster: for the next 30 days, I will not eat one bite of pasta.

Out. Of. Control.

I'm neurotic today because...
...somewhere between P90X and Thursday, I lost what was left of my sanity.

Mooooove over, I have a new idea

Today on my drive home, I saw a home made sign Scotch-taped to the back of a pickup truck that read: 'The closer you tailgate, the slower I drive'.

I thought it was brilliant for two main reasons:
a) it's hard to be mad at someone who warned you ahead of time;
2) he made his own bumper sticker. Ghetto or not, his bumper decor is one of a kind, and I like that.

It might be fun to get into the bumper sticker business. I have some decent opinions, and occasionally come off with a good one-liner. The problem arises not in the making of the bumper sticker, but in the sticking of the bumper sticker. Is there anything I feel that strongly about that I want it forever stuck to my car (with the exception that I should be a 'Blog of Note')? I admire tailgater guy because he has conviction. He had an idea. He materialized the idea. He plastered it (sort of) to his vehicle. That, my friends, is commitment.

But then again, there is Vegetarian Volvo to consider. (It wasn't really a Volvo, but I like alliteration. It makes me happy. So roll with it, mkay?) Poor Vegetarian Volvo. Plastered across the tail end of this vehicle were pictures of huge cow heads. Yes, cow heads. Oh, and gruesome details about how they're being abused in order to feed the insensitive meat eaters of the world. Ew. Too much information. I can play nice and respect your opinions about politics, religion and my mama. But please do not talk to me about my steak. I like steak. And while I don't approve of bovine abuse, I certainly don't want to think about what happens from the pasture to my plate. Especially not on my way home for dinner. I'm sorry. That is insensitive. But true.

To bumper sticker or not to bumper sticker? That is the question.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm too middle of the road for bumper sticker commitment. What I could be down for is a clear plastic sleeve tacked to the rear of my car so that if I feel strongly about something that day, I can jot it down on a note card and slide it in the sleeve for display....with the peace of mind that I can change my mind tomorrow.

Title Wanted

Holy crap it's hard to be alone.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy my own company. Sometimes I tell myself a joke and really crack me up. Occasionally, I'll pull the big mirror off the wall and we practice my hip hop moves. Booty hop. Harlem shake. Popping, locking. No urban dance move left behind, I say. I also especially enjoy the times I cuddle up with me and Netflix a romantic comedy. Forrest likes it too. I think he has a crush on Sandra Bullock. She best watch out. I'll slap a ho' if she need it.

I'm neurotic today because...
...in the future I should transition from having nearly all my friends together at once to being totally alone in the house a little more smoothly. Maybe gradually let one friend go per day.

A Word From My Couch Nap

I've been in recovery mode all day....mostly because of an obnoxious p90x video, but a little because of the events of last evening.

It was another eventful day, and proof again that when plans involve me, they rarely go as intended. That's not to say it was a bad day. In fact, it was awesome. Is there anything better than live music with five of your favorite people? I think not.

Due to conflicting tailgating information on the venue's website, our plan was to meet around 4pm for pre-concert drinks/food at an area restaurant. This gave me just enough time to hit the gym before I had to shower and prepare for the evening. In my excitement, however, I experienced a temporary moment of insanity and suggested to my friend Sarah that we also complete one video of the p90x exercise series. In retrospect, I might have been too ambitious...and just a tad oblivious about the recovery time for such a venture. Nevertheless, I finished my hour-long workout at the gym, came home still riding my endorphin high, and powered through the 50 minute p90x workout. Well, most of the 50 minute workout. I apparently can't do a push up to save my life. Plus, that video is no joke.

Fast forward through the workout pain, past the showering and primping, to departure time. A last minute discovery that Merriweather Post Pavilion does indeed allow tailgating sent us into a bit of a frenzy. We ditched the restaurant for the mall food court, took a detour through the suburbs in search of a beer store, performed a 40 mph illegal u-turn into concert traffic, cut off a total jackass to merge into the single coned-off lane of vehicles, and arrived safely in the parking lot nearly an hour before showtime. Phew. Incidentally, I was carded at the beer store. I thanked the Asian man behind the counter for the compliment. He replied, 'That's your problem, not mine'. Huh? I was told that he was paying me a compliment and followed up the statement with, 'for looking so young', but I didn't hear him. Even if I did hear him, I still don't get it.

After we finished the beverages we had in tow, our group headed into the show. Little did we know that everyone in the Baltimore/DC area had already arrived inside and staked their claim to every inch of grass on the lawn. Merriweather, you sold too many tickets. Fire codes were broken, for the love of Pete. I had to exchange words with a tall lanky man and his frowny female companion in order to find a 4x4 area to lay out our blanket. This could really launch into another full blog about concert etiquette...heck, it just might. For now let me just say that it was, in the words of my good friend Beth, the douchiest concert crowd ever.

Wait! Don't go. There is so much more I could say! I didn't tell you that our suburban detour was due to a faulty GPS, and instead of taking us to the beer store it took us to KinderCare. Oh, or how Fake Andy crashed our post-concert tailgate and started a fight with Sara-no-H about Michigan vs. Penn State. Or about how one of our own almost peed herself. Or how after the show Amanda and I polished off an entire platter of the best cheese fries known to man.

I'm neurotic today because...
...my butt and inner thighs hurt so badly that I have to brace myself when I squat down to use the toilet, and I cried a little tear when I took my black sharpie across 'Jack Johnson concert' on the calendar this morning.

18 Days Until Happily Ever After

If after August 2nd you don't hear from me, no worries. I probably just reunited with my rock star boyfriend and lived happily ever after.

Over the years I've had my fair share of celebrity encounters. It all started with Ray Lewis cutting in line in front of me at Blockbuster. If he wasn't under house arrest pending murder charges at the time, I might have said something. Prudently, I let his inconsideration slide. Next time...watch out, Ray Ray. I'm coming for you.

And then there was pre-Twitter John Mayer. I arrived with my youngest sister, Samantha, extra early to the First Mariner Arena. We wanted plenty of time to snag our fifth-row-from-the-top seats, check out the t-shirts, and mentally prepare ourselves for Boy Wonder's performance. This was, after all, circa-Heavier Things and he was really on his game. Long story short, someone involved with his crew hiked up to the nosebleed section, struck up conversation with us, and then upgraded our seats to front row, center. Unbelievable. By the end of the night I had John Mayer giving me the come-hither stare as he serenaded me. (This is my story, I'll tell it the way I want.)

Back in my club-hopping days, I ran into then-Indiana Pacer Ron Artest. Well, I didn't run into him; I boldly strutted over to him, interrupted the conversation he was having with a member of his entourage, and introduced myself. This was way back when I had some swagger. I was wearing a hat and a pair of killer heels, so I was pretty much unstoppable. The memory is a little hazy, but I'm fairly certain he asked for my digits. I, of course being a lady, politely decline. (Like I said...)

Most recently, my sister and I met Britt Daniel, lyricist and lead singer of the band Spoon. Yes, make your jokes. Fork, knife, spork. Ha, ha, so funny. Not. As I was saying, we had just experienced a totally kick-buttocks show and were waiting for everyone to clear out. As we turned to leave, I looked down at the stage from our position on the balcony and saw that good ol' Britt had emerged to survey the scene. After a moment of indecision, we beelined for the stage like a bunch of school girls. Uh, I mean, we nonchalantly strolled over to say hello. Only when I got there, I could not think of one intelligent thing to say. Not one. I think what came out was something like, 'Hi, uh, thanks so much. Uh, it was a great show. I, uh, really thought you were great.' I'm not generally that easily impressed, but I was totally caught off guard. I sounded like a babbling fool.

August 2nd I get my second chance, and I'm not going to blow it this time. Samantha and I have tickets for Spoon/Arcade Fire playing in Philadelphia. I'm preparing my repartee now. I'll be witty and charming, and Britt won't know what to do with himself.

I'm neurotic today because...
...our tickets are balcony seats, roughly a gagillion feet from the stage....which means only umpteen thousand people stand between me and my man.

Public Enemy #2

The second floor bathroom at 10753 Falls Road is the grossest place on Earth. Okay, maybe I'm being a smidge dramatic.

Then again, maybe not.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: what is the purpose of the tissue paper toilet seat cover? As far as I can tell, it only serves to soak up the pee of the person who was there before me. Judging from the splatter pattern, this person was a hoverer. I understand why the hoverer hovers...because the person in front of them hovered, splattering their urine all over the place...and that person hovered because the person in front of them hovered. Please, ladies, I implore you...break the hover cycle!

And while I'm on the subject of pee splatter, who is urinating on the floor? I could concede the presence of a foul smelling puddle saturating my shoe if it were a mens room. After all, it is a long way from the man-goodies to the toilet bowl. But in a ladies room? Even if you are a hoverer, I can only assume you implement the straddle-the-toilet-bowl method. How, then, do you miss the toilet?

And why are there always strips of toilet paper strewn about the bathroom? I'll admit, I don't use the exposed piece of toilet tissue on my special places...that portion gets torn off and a fresh, uncontaminated piece is used. But the unused portion is flushed, not thrown about the room, t-p party style.

I'm not sure what the second floor employees are consuming for lunch, but someone has severe intestinal issues. There is always a moment of indecision--stay or go?--when I enter the rancid smelling post-lunch restroom. If I stay, will the person jiggling the door handle, waiting for me to finish, think I was the culprit of such an offensive odor? Should I tell them that under no circumstance do I #2 at work? Will they think I'm joshin' them?

I'm neurotic today because...
...I have more public bathroom issues than I have room to blog. Ugh!

Disgruntled Employee #1

What's up, Blogger?

I've never been regarded as the most patient person in the world, I'll admit. But give me a break, orange Blogger logo people (who are you, anyway?), I've been writing since May and I still have not reached the 'Blogs of Note' status. So, pray tell...what's up with that?

I've got double digit followers now. That has to count for something. And that one blog last month had like, I don't know, five comments. I'm working hard, putting forth a good effort, I think. I've even added pictures for enhanced visual effect (see, I even stole your logo). Just because Diary of an IndyGrrl has 600 followers and umpteen million comments doesn't mean squat. (Sorry, IndyGrrl, I'm sure you're lovely.)

Where was I going with this?

Oh, yes. Grinding thick, discolored fungal toenails and debriding pus-filled diabetic ulcers for a living sucks. I'm not going to lie. My sinus cavities are lined with several inches of mycotic debris, I'm sure of it. Most days I wish the office had one of those biohazard showers so I could rinse the nastiness off me before I go into public. The smell of rotting flesh lingers, you know.

Oh, Monday morning, how I loathe thee.

I'm neurotic today because...
...what exactly does it take to get a break in this business?

Lazy trumps crazy

I've been slacking, I know.

Guilty pleasures. We all have them. Whether you secretly rock out in your underwear to 80's rock bands or collect and name china dolls, you have something you do in your private time that you're not excited to admit to your friends. My GP goes by the name of Wife Swap. The ABC 'reality' show takes two diametric families and flip-flops the matriarch. For example, an uber-strict martial artist mother would be swapped with another family's belch-contest-winning mommy dearest. It's ridiculous, really. There are always tears and tantrums, and inevitably an 'I-didn't-sign-up-for-this'...which makes me wonder what they thought they were signing up for. Have they never watched the show? Come on.

Maybe it wouldn't make for entertaining television, I don't know, but I've never seen an episode where a single mother swapped with another family. Hey ABC, I want to know...who is my antagonist? I'm envisioning a large breasted blonde with heavy blue eyeshadow and long, hot pink acrylic fingernails. She would say things like 'that's hot' and read Star magazine for entertainment. She wouldn't cook, clean, work, check homework, do homework, wash laundry, discipline, teach, chauffeur, or entertain.

I'm neurotic today because...
...to my future fellow Wife Swap contestant I say, the joke's on you.

Wait a minute. Dealing with a grown man-child or doing it all myself?
I'll stick with what works. Nevermind, Wife Swap.

Diagram included, for your reference

'I love the feeling of communicating through the iris of the eye. When I know...and you know. You with me?'

I was gifted that little jewel from my hairdresser. She's obviously a little nuts. And if you actually followed what she said, you may be a little nuts as well. What a bold statement, coming from me.

I know everything about my hairdresser, TMI Tess, and I've seen her twice. It's really awkward, being bound to a chair while a scissor-wielding stranger discloses every intimate detail of her life to you. Career moves. Relationship drama. Face lift results (with before and after photos). I don't know my role in the whole exchange, and it makes me a little anxious. Are we friends? Should I reciprocate with a story from my childhood? I just don't know, TMI Tess. I just don't know.

I should thank TMI Tess, really. She has inspired me to enlist the help of my readers: I beg you, take me out of rotation if ever I begin making statements like this:

'I am an ageless creature. I am a legend.'

I'm neurotic today because...
...my fear of excessive self-disclosure has prompted me to develop a system of checks and balances, whereby I will be immediately ousted from Blogger if I start talking gibberish and/or attempting to make profound statements using eye anatomy.

Mr. Morocco and Toothpick Barbie

Let's face it, I've been out of the game for a minute. My cute high heels cause my corns to hurt, and I can barely fit my post-baby hips into...much of anything. (I say post-baby, as if I just had babies.) Even more, it takes a very special person to pry me from my instant watch netflix, out of my sweatpants, and into a club.

It was the spontaneity of it all that really got my juices flowin'. I was about five episodes into season two of Arrested Development, fully content with the idea that it was just going to be me and Forrest for the night, when I got the call. Me? Salsa dancing? Now? At first, panic. I haven't brushed up on my Shakira moves in weeks. My Beyonce outfit was at the cleaners. And then, of course, there are my aching corns to worry about. Would they hold up in my clear stripper heels? Or should I go with my platform Lady GaGa shoes? Must. Pull. Myself. Together.

As it turns out, not much has changed in the past five years. Roughly two minutes after my friend and I sat down at the bar to enjoy our martini and cranberry/vodka, respectively, I was poked. One chubby Moroccan finger, square in the middle of my back. I turned to see what was on the other end of the chubby Moroccan finger, to find a chubby Moroccan man. Go figure. Shaking his Moroccan hips, he mouthed to me, 'wanna dance?'. Aw lawd. I declined, as politely as I could after being poked, and turned back to my friend. Mr. Morocco was not deterred. Oh no. He proceeded to wedge himself between my friend and myself, order another Bud Light and coffee, and strike up conversation. He apparently needed to sober up for a big trip to Ocean City. Did we want to go? My friend, much more kind than I, carried the conversation for a while, until Mr. Morocco tired and retreated...but not before he thanked me for shutting him down. Awkward.

Shortly after Mr. Morocco headed to Ocean City, Toothpick Barbie arrived. You might be inclined to think she earned her nickname because she was waif-like. Not so. She literally rolled into the club, five inch heels, sequined dress, teased up blonde hair, blackened eyes...with a toothpick hanging out of her mouth. First of all, if you know me, you know that the thought of anything wooden in or around my mouth gives me the heeby geebies. No, I cannot eat those popsicles on the sticks. Having just typed that sent a chill down my spine. Secondly, could she not go with gum? I find popping a piece of Wrigley's not only serves to clean your teeth, but leaves you with minty fresh breath. Win-win, really.

I'm neurotic today because...
...in my haste to transform myself from couch potato to super model, I completely trashed my bathroom in search of my long lost 'going out' makeup and accessories...which didn't even matter, since by the end of the night I was a sweaty hot mess.

And I've got pictures to prove it

It's been such an eventful few days, I hardly know where to begin. What better place than...just now?

I held an impromptu cook-food-on-the-grill event tonight. All went well, with the exception of one foolish attendee suggesting I 'just relax'. I'm certain I've established by now that I rarely relax. And I'm okay with that, I really am. But in case you've been living in a cave and not reading my blog, telling me to 'just relax' does the opposite of make me relax. So please stop. If you do not stop, I promise you, I will poke you in the eye with a fork. And then I'll relax right beside your bleeding eye, just to spite you.

Last night I ventured with the kids to the good ol' District of Columbia to watch fireworks. DC is such a pretty city...at dusk, from across the river. While trying to find the perfect viewing area, I was reminded of another one of my spaz-attack triggers: bugs. I'm not afraid of them, or anything normal like that. It's when they get so thick in the air that you're inhaling them that causes me to wrap myself up in blankets in the midst of 98 degree heat. And bathe in bug spray. And wear the bug repellent fan between my ta-ta's.

I'm neurotic today because...
...if given the choice, I'd rather sweat to death than have bugs invade all my orifices, causing certain death by gross out.

Oh, my aching uterus (with a side of genius)

Please excuse my heavy breathing. I just returned from the most amazing run on the NCR trail ever. Well, except for the whole Laila inhaling her food upon return and then projectile vomiting it across my she-cave thing. Besides that, it was awesome for two reasons.

First, I solved an ongoing quandary of mine.

I have been suffering from baby fever like whoa lately. It feels like everyone was invited to the baby making party but me. It's a little sad, I'm not going to lie. Luckily for me, I have Laila, who is apparently the cutest dog on the face of the earth. She's almost like having a baby, except I never retained water and didn't have to push her from my hoo-ha. I get all the same smiles and aww, she's so cute's as with the kids. I even have to put the pink collar on her so everyone knows she's a girl, just like I did with my bald babies. Problem [temporarily?] solved: I'll ride this wave for a while, take Laila for long walks in crowded areas, and hopefully avoid the need for a spermcicle.

Secondly, I invented something.

As I was running along, breathing heavily, inhaling bugs as I went along, I thought to myself, self, you really should invent something that prevents bugs from flying into your mouth when you run outside. Either that, or be in better shape so you're not inhaling so hard. Let's face it, inventing something is easier, and more likely. So, I did. Based on my rough mental sketch, I've envisioned a multi-colored sweatband with tinted adjustable Plexiglas windshield attachment. I'd like to somehow work into the design a hair tie for the mane-challenged of the running world, but I need to work out the logistics.

I swear, some days I think I sweat genius.

I'm neurotic today because...
...did I just say I wanted another baby?

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's PsychoGirl!

I might be a superhero.

Is it true if one of your five senses is weak, another sense will become stronger in compensation? I'm blind as a bat. Seriously. I can only see clearly within 12 inches of my face. Beyond that, everything is a hazy conglomeration of muted colors and shapes. On the other hand, I hear the refrigerator click on and off from two flights upstairs. I hear the garbage truck when it rolls into my neighborhood five blocks away in the wee hours of the morn'. I hear my daughter sigh as she rolls over (and over and over and over) at night. It's ridiculous.

I would like to use my supersonic hearing powers for good. I really would. Unfortunately, I can't function over the sound of you chewing your food. Try as I may to drift away to my quiet place, if I'm within fifty feet of a gum flapper, I'm going to have an episode. It's like I'm afflicted with Tourette's or something. I can't stop myself. I also apparently have a heavy sigh/run-my-fingers-through-my-hair move that signals my discontent. I can't find words to adequately describe how I feel when I'm near an open mouth chewer. It's as though Wolverine's adamantium was injected into my veins, but instead of making me awesome and indestructible, it made me crazy.

Snorers also have this affect on me.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I wish I could pull a childhood move from my bag-o-tricks and start chucking things at the offender until they stop or until I run out of objects within arms reach, whichever comes first.

Who do I speak to about a nickname?

Today I saw a Harley Hog boldly block an intersection with his bike so that two miles (literally) of buddies could pass through the red light without stopping. First of all, I wasn't aware this was legal. Is there a Harley Hog loophole for traffic light law that I'm not aware of? Secondly, I began wondering what it might be like to be someone else. If I weren't me, who would I be?

I'm definitely thinking biker chick. But I'd have to ride a Honda or whatever the fast bikes are, because, although I can rock a bandanna like it's nobody's business, my hair isn't long enough to fix into those Willie Nelson braids. Better to go with mysterious biker chick. Yeah, mysterious. Picture me arriving at my destination--at dusk, always at dusk--, dismounting my bike, gracefully removing my helmet, and performing one of those cool slow motion hair flips. Maybe there could be some fog creeping in as I strut towards the setting sun. This, of course, would happen whenever and wherever I arrive, because I will be an amazingly cool biker chick.

Nailed it. Yeah, I did.

I'm neurotic today because...
...going 61 mph in a 40 mph speed zone whilest daydreaming about becoming a biker chick and coming away with a written warning could only happen to me, suburban soccer mom. Today it was good to be me.

I need a bandaid, STAT!

My son, the drama king.

This afternoon we spent some real quality time [running errands] in one of our favorite places [Target], much to Jacob's delight [misery]. Whilst calmly perusing [clowning around] the toy [laundry detergent] aisle, I hear my dear son cry out [scream the girliest scream known to man] in pain. I immediately turned [after I loaded up my Tide--inside the basket, btw] to investigate the situation:

Me: 'Jacob, what happened?'

Jacob: [clutching his hand close to his chest] 'I ca-can't sh-show you, I-I'm losing too much bl-bloooooooood!'

Me: 'Okay, okay, calm down. Let me see. [holding back my laughter] Oh my goodness, Jacob! Are you OKAY?!'

Jacob: [peeking at his finger] 'Oh nooooooo! I'm probably going to lose the nail! Are you going to have to take the nail off!? It's bleeeeeeeeeding!'

Me: 'I know, I know it's bleeding. Profusely! I probably won't have to take the nail off...but I might need to remove the whole thing. [give it a minute, let it sink in] You don't mind having one less finger, do you?'

Jacob: 'Oh, Mom.' [eye roll]

Meghan: 'That was a good one, Mom. You really had this convincing look on your face. I liked that!'

[Smile]

I'm neurotic today because...
...I've spawned a child with more drama in his injured little finger than all the daytime television stars combined.

Rated N for Not-Quite-Right

I was asked a few weeks ago whether I thought I'd be able to continue writing at this pace. I guess time will tell, although I've never really had to brainstorm for ideas...my mind is a hodgepodge of useless knowledge, random thoughts, and minor neuroses. For example:

Last night I saw bats flying around the neighborhood, so I put my hood up for protection. Fool proof, I think. I really need to get my glasses adjusted so they stop falling off the end of my nose. Or get a bigger nose. Ke$ha, you're silly. You and your robot voice are just silly. Furthermore, I think the only way you should be allowed to change the 's' to '$' is if you're raking in some serious dough, and I don't believe you are...or will for the long haul, anyway. I'm contemplating going with &he!l@. It makes just as much sense. And while I'm thinking of it, why is Eminem still so angry? Meghan thinks she has more mosquito bites than skin. What a crazy kid. You do have more bacteria than body cells, though. Maybe I should tell her. Everytime I text, my i's and m's triplicate themselves. I hope the recipient doesn't think I can't spell. I lost two facebook friends today. I wonder if it's because I unintentionally triplicate my i's and m's. Maybe. Or maybe it's because they read my blog and actually think I'm certifiably crazy. Maybe they only allot a certain number of crazy friends, and I didn't make the cut. Sometimes I wish I still drove the beat-up Volvo, so when someone cuts me off on the beltway I could just ram them in the rear-end. Not hurt them or anything, just let them know it's not polite to cut people off.

Welcome to five minutes in my head. I wouldn't recommend extended stays, but it's always fun to drive by, point, and laugh.

I'm neurotic today because...
...the inner workings of me are not for the faint of heart.

Would you like to participate in a research study?

I've been spending a lot of time alone lately (two whole days). No children, no Mommy #2, nada. Just me and my bi-, eh, dog.

I'm not sure if I'm doing it the right way, but I've been going with the wander-aimlessly-through-the-empty-house-talking-to-myself method of singledom. It's not as though I have nothing to do. There are waist-high piles of laundry giving me the hairy eyeball, spiders taking up residence in the cobwebbed corners of my living room, and half-a-dozen boxes scattered around my storage facility of a bedroom that I have yet to pack away since moving...a year ago.

The problem is this: I cannot function unless I'm doing nine things simultaneously. I really can't. Throw in the fact that I don't have children bellowing 'Mommy, guess what' or 'Mom, can I', and I'm two short steps from catatonia.

I must keep busy. Maybe tonight I'll label my socks R/L and by numbered pair. Or recaulk my bathtub. Or read my Organic Chemistry book for fun.

Oh, the possiblities!

I'm neurotic today because...
...I don't even remember how to relax...maybe I'll conduct some research...yeah, that's it...I'll research relaxation.

I'm giving up the stamps, what more do you want from me?

In retrospect, I should have negotiated to keep custody of my in-laws in the divorce settlement.

I've spent the past four days camping with my ex-mother-in-law and family, and I realize more than ever that these are my people: fun, with just the right amount of crazy. I mean that in the most loving way possible. I really do. But hey, you can't blow dry your goodies after the shower and expect me not to call you crazy. I'm sorry.

Anyway, I think somewhere between child support and property settlement you should be able to negotiate extended family custody. Maybe some sort of barter system should be in place, where I could have given up my stamp collection in exchange for my mother- and sister-in-law. Okay, so I've never had a stamp collection. The point is, I think it's only fair that I get to keep the people I like in exchange for meaningless inanimate objects. It's only fair, I tell you.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'd like to take the ex-husband back to court for property of his family.

Oy vey!

"Hi. So i was wondering whats up with your post, I wasn't sure if you still had this.. Please let me know! Thanks in advance."

That is an actual response I received in reference to an ad I posted for a summer babysitter. I'm not sure why I'm surprised, really. This generation of young adults has frightened me for some time now. My reply to this young woman:

Dear Anonymous (because you didn't provide your name),

"What's up" with my post is I need summer child care. Had you taken two seconds to read my ad, you would have a clear understanding of "what's up". As far as being sure I "still had this", rest assured I still have my children. They're not borrowed, on lease, or returnable.

Furthermore, your grammar and punctuation is atrocious.

Sincerely,
Thanks, but no thanks

I'm neurotic today because...
...I can't find a teenager more responsible than my 9 year old son.

Yes, I know, I'm nuts. That's the point.

Things bother me way more in duration and intensity than I would consider to be 'normal'.

How can I forget winter of '85, and relentlessly taunting my third grade classmate with chants of 'purple people eater'? If only I could have recognized that her outerwear was not her fault. Clearly her mother lacked foresight/understanding of 8 year old maturity (or lack thereof) and forced her into the purple coat.

And then there's that time in high school that I accidentally stole a 2-liter of soda from Myer's Meat Market. Oh, and recently, I might have forgotten the laundry detergent under the basket in Target. Twice. In my defense, I discovered the error after I left the building and was a little scared that if I returned to the store to pay, they would arrest me for intent to steal or some such nonsense.

Oh! And I'm sorry, poor little turtle, for running you over on that narrow street in South Carolina. It was either you or the oncoming vehicle. You should know that I think of you often, and hope you went to your happy place. Or, at the very least, that some hillbilly made a nice turtle soup for his family with you.

Shush, you, with your judgemental eyes! I choose to believe that I simply care at an unusually high level, and this particular little issue isn't due to some underlying need for medication.

I'm neurotic today because...
...telling me to 'just relax' doesn't really help, okay?

For your morning poop

Wow, I've never had an actual deadline before.

I was pleased as punch yesterday to attend karaoke night at the Knights of Columbus with Little Brother. Not only did my presence allow him to win a bet (never bet against me, Greg, you fool), but it gave me the occasion to drive through the ol' stomping grounds of my youth. I use that expression loosely, because as kids we didn't really venture much beyond Main Street. Nevertheless, McSherrystown, Pennsylvania, you remind me...

...of countless balls hit over 'the fence'. Who's going over? I'm not going over, YOU go over. I'm not going over, YOU hit it, YOU go over. I'm not sure anymore what was so scary about the other side of that fence...all I know is, I'm the oldest, I'm not going over.

...of the penny candy store in the back room of the A&B Religious Shop. How convenient of you, A&B. I could get my rosary with a side of licorice whips and candy cigarettes. Sweet!

...of constantly forgetting my house key and our absolutely insane ways of breaking into the apartment. For the record, bobby pins do not pick locks. You also cannot shove the smallest kid through the space created when you open the deadlock, but the chain lock is still in place. However, if you're as limber as I was in the sixth grade, you can teeter perilously over the balcony's edge of a second story apartment, shimmy the window open, and leap into the kitchen sink.

I hope I published this in time for your morning poop.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I am a product of small town America.

I'll call it 'Sh-ecards', and I'll be rich

I was feeling thoughtful this morning, so decided I would send an ecard to a comrade of mine. All I wanted was a simple, good luck ecard. What I found was either so sappy that I found myself nauseous, or so generic that I questioned the point in even sending it in the first place. So I've decided to start a more honest card company, with greetings like:

"If we could learn to communicate more effectively in real life, picking out a greeting card for you would be a whole lot easier. ________________!"

"You stress me out, induce migraines and give me sleepless nights, and against my better judgement, I think I might possibly love you. At the very least, I like you a lot. _______________!"

"I'm sending you this card because you've been kind to me and now I feel obligated to be kind in return. ________________!"

These are just a few ideas I have rattling around in the ol' noggin. I thought I'd keep the cards universal by omitting the expression, providing you the freedom to fill in the blank for whatever occasion may arise.

Now all I need is someone with capital.

I'm neurotic today because...
...nooo, these greeting cards are in no way based on my life.

Mini-me, M. Delaney

To avoid an eight-page blog and risk losing you, my loyal blog reader, I've placed the events of my past few days on the wheel-o-crazy and gave 'er a spin.....here's today's golden nugget:

Talking to my daughter is like having a discussion with a grown woman trapped in an 8 year old girl's body. She possesses an innate maturity that I have not seen in most adults, let alone a child. She is articulate, sassy and hilarious. And the scariest thing of all, she is mini-me.

Our fish, Goober, has been on his last le-, er, fin, for months now. I'm pretty sure he's suffered a fishy-stroke of some sort because his hind parts kinda just drag behind him when he attempts to swim. Watching his health take a turn for the worse, Meghan says to me (and if you know Meghan, say this in your Meghan voice), 'You know, Mom, it's not that I want Goober to, you know [hand flip], die, but I really hate seeing him this way. I wish if he was going to, you know, die, that he would go ahead and do it. I mean, it's not that I want him to, but I just feel really bad for him.'

Is she telling me we should euthanize our fish?

At school this week, the second graders were asked to name a person they admire and give a reason why. Meghan chose me and said, 'because she works really hard to take care of us, and she's the most loving, caring mom in the whole world'. (*tears*) As if sharing that with me wasn't enough, she follows up by exclaiming, 'Can you believe [hand up in oh-no-you-didn't pose] that Katie chose Lady GaGa?!'

Did I just beat out Lady GaGa for my daughter's affection?

I'm neurotic today because...
...I have a daughter who is gorgeous, intelligent, confident and sassy. This can only lead to sleepless nights. Or more gray hair. Or an ulcer. Or jail time.

Two points for honesty

'I have to excuse myself. My legs were so swollen this morning that I had to take my Lasix. Sometimes I can't make it to the bathroom in time, and I think this morning I peed myself a little. I apologize if I have an odor, dear.'

I love old people for a lot of reasons, but most of all because they're not afraid. They're not afraid to tell you they've peed themselves, or that they're bleeding from the rectum ('due to medication interactions. It only happens when I have a movement, dear. Don't worry'). They tell you you're fat if you are, that you need a haircut if you do, or that you're wrong whenever they feel you are. They do these things without provocation and without apology...because they can.

I suppose when I'm 85 years old I won't give two hoots either whether anyone approves of me driving 45 mph on the beltway or only partially pulling my Lincoln Continental into my handicapped parking spot. I might even unabashedly pass gas in public. Who knows what I'll do with all that freedom.

I'm neurotic today because...
...I'm starting a to-do list of all the things I'll do when I no longer care what you think of me.

I'm fairly certain I passed anatomy class

How, exactly, does having a penis make you better at fixing a garbage disposal?

Just wondering. It seems that because I lack one, I am an idiot and cannot determine whether a household appliance is broken. 'Just tighten the bolt around the sink-pipe joint', the landlord says. Really? Are these technical terms? And is this the plan for addressing a garbage disposal that not only stinks to all high heaven, but also leaks water profusely every time the switch is flipped? 'I've done that', I reply. 'Well don't you have a man that could come around and look at it for you?'

Um, did he really just say that to me?

Flash back with me for a hot second. When I first moved into this house, I discovered quickly that I didn't need an alarm clock to wake up at the arse-crack of dawn. Five-thirty a.m. is apparently prime sharpening-the-nails-on-the side-of-the-house time for squirrels. Let me do the math for you: pre-dawn light + furry tailed rodents that I hate with a fiery passion x the most annoying sound on the face of the earth = a Sheila spazz out the likes of which you have rarely seen.

After about a week of wanting to rip through the dry wall and take a hammer to their little rat heads, I contacted the landlord. I thought it might be nice for him to know the side of his house was being gnawed to pieces. Silly me. Silly, silly woman. Not only was he not concerned, he didn't believe me: 'I told my wife, poor Sheila. She's over there all alone and she's probably just scared.'

Long story short, the squirrels tore out the entire rear soffit and a large portion of the plywood under the roof. But it took me months to convince this d-bag that I wasn't crazy or scared. So I ask again, how does a penis make you more capable of....anything?

I'm neurotic today because...
...I missed the day in anatomy where it was taught that the brain bone is connected to the penis bone.