I'll sleep when I'm dead

I'm a grade-A insomniac. I know, I know. It shocks most people. My mother says it's because I have too much on my mind. I think it's because I'm a genius. (huh?)

Over the years, I've devised all sorts of tactics to combat my 9pm second wind. I've been forced take measures beyond the usual not watching television, limiting caffeine intake, and using my bed for sleep only. (Yes, sleep only.)

The first step in a good night of shut-eye is proper pillow alignment: two down feather pillows cradling my noggin, two foam pillows at a 45-degree angle supporting my trapezius muscles, and one final pillow tucked gently under my knees. If I'm feeling saucy, I'll flip to my side and go with the alternative pillow-between-the-knees method.

Secondly, fan speed to bed covering ratio is key. (An aside: I scoff at you, flat sheet non-user. Sheets are sold in a set for a reason, you lunatic.) One cannot risk overheating mid-slumber, so current conditions should be assessed prior to determining your breeze-blanket ratio. These factors include, but are not limited to, outside temperature, time of sunrise, and efficiency of your heating/cooling unit. I find that during summer months, setting the ceiling fan to medium speed, covering from the armpits-down with the flat sheet/down comforter combination, and placing the thermostat to a cool 68 degrees allows for optimal sleeping conditions.

After all variables have been addressed, I slide into bed and close my reluctant eyes. In recent years, I've taken to wearing a sleep mask to bed. This has proven to be an abounding source of mockery at sleepovers, but I don't care. I never leave home without my eye covering. (It certainly beats my old method of sleeping with a pillow over my head.) Now that I have been properly cooled, blanketed, propped, and blindfolded, it's off to la-la land.

Or not.

I'm neurotic today because...
....I don't count sheep, I count the minutes until I can get up again.

Shut your pie hole, okay?

Ignorance really irritates me.

Unless, of course, it's my choice:

Rodents the size of domestic animals do not reside in the suburbs. Nor do they roam about in areas they know I have been or plan to visit.

Bing Crosby was not a drunk, Albert Einstein did not cheat on his wives, and Sheldon Cooper is not autistic. So shut your pie hole, okay?

My children will always think it's cool to hang out with me, they will always give me hugs in public, and they will always eagerly talk to me about what's going on in their lives.

I've never eaten in a restaurant with health code violations. The cook wears a hairnet and gloves when preparing my food and the waiter has freshly washed hands. I've never ingested any hair, body fluids, or bugs with my meal.

All my ex's realize I am perfect and regret the day they let me go. Furthermore, extremely attractive and wealthy men are intimidated by my beauty. This is clearly the reason I haven't been snagged yet.



I'm neurotic today because...
...selective ignorance is pure bliss.

Your cover-up

I saw one of the most noteworthy displays of cover-up-my-bald-spot this week.

It occurred on a morning much like any other, as I was waiting in line for my grande non-fat caramel macchiato. I haven't figured out why, but Starbucks always has the most interesting clientele. Waiting in line two customers ahead of me was a middle-aged guy rocking a mohawk. I thought to myself, cool, that dude's rocking a mohawk. Go on wit yo' bad self. (Yes, I said it just like that.) It wasn't until he turned his head that I saw what he was hiding. Nestled there, right smack in the middle of his 'do was a patch of baldness, just as smooth and hairless as a baby's bottom. The two ridges of spiked up hair vertically lining this spot reached towards each other with a desperation I've rarely seen. It's as though these ridges were trying to reach out and hold each other before they too fall out. This got me thinking...

Maybe instead of working out so hard to fit back into my skinny jeans, risking not only muffin top but funny commentary from the Starbucks customer waiting two people behind me, I should change the world's perception of what constitutes an alluring body. Here's my theory: when you take an exam of any sort, the goal is to score as high as you can--an A--right? Now let's apply this to a woman's body. 'A' cups are better than 'C' or 'D' cups. Ladies, you don't want to fail in the ta-ta department...A all the way, baby. Now, sticking with the test taking analogy, when graded numerically, the higher the number, the better, right? Apply this to hips, thighs, butt. The curvier, the better...we're shooting for high numbers here, folks.

You're welcome.

I'm neurotic today because...
...it's easier to change my mind than my pants size.

My perspective

The past few days my answering machine has been riddled with messages from my local politicians. More than anything, I'd like to return the call and let them know that their message makes me want to drop kick them in the throat. An effective campaign would tell me more about what the candidate is prepared to do, and less about what his opponent can't do/lied about. This got me thinking...

I'm going to run for office under the following campaign slogan: "If you suck, you get nothing".

Here are some basic guidelines to my plan:
~If you hate your job and you take it out on me, you suck and you get nothing. I did not ask you to work at 7-eleven, you chose to do so. I'm just trying to buy my 2-for-$3 Gatorade. I come in peace. I swear. In a related matter, if you have a roof over your head and food on your plate and you still find something to whine about, you suck and you also get nothing.
~If you disrespect old people, even the perma-frown ones, you suck and you get nothing. Chances are they've seen and done a lot more than your sorry butt and they've got a solid reason for being less than perky. One exception to this rule is when you find that the car driving 45 miles per hour on 83 South is a 95 year old man making an eventual right, and you're late for work. In this case, you may flip him the bird. But you should feel guilty about it later.
~If you want to throw-down in the Target pharmacy department over where the line starts, you definitely suck and you get nothing. Next time just relax and I will let you in line in front of me. You clearly need your meds more than I.

Be grateful, be respectful, and please, please, just relax!

Vote Staub in 2011!

I'm neurotic today because...
...wait, compared to crazy-Target lady, I'm perfectly normal...today.

My cojones

If I don't stop thinking so hard, I'm going to have to start caulking the wrinkles in my forehead.

Seriously.

Soooo, I was thinking today. If I could harness the 'spiritual energy' from Bikram and marry that with the knowledge I'm gleaning from Faraday on LOST, I just might be able to travel back in time to high school and change a few things. (I realize for this to truly work, I'm going to have to stop putting my comments about Bikram in quotes, as if I don't believe them.) As far as I can figure, high school is where things started going south for me. If only I had the cojones to do something back then, maybe I would be finished school, doing something that I love, and making tons of moo-la. Or, at the very least, married to a millionaire.

I know, I know. There are skeptics among you.

You don't think I could land a millionaire, do you?

I'm neurotic today because...
...who will be my constant?

My disconnect

I have a little problem I like to refer to as verbal 'inefficiency of words' (not to be confused with verbal diarrhea--totally different). For unknown reasons, the brilliance that resides in my cerebral cortex travels towards my lips and is spewed forth...let's just say, less than succinct.

There are few things worse to me than realizing midway through delivery that my audience thinks I'm a babbling fool. Seeing that familiar look of confusion sends my brain to its quiet place, where it will spend the rest of the conversation analyzing where it all went wrong. Who can maintain communication under such pressure?!

This is why I'd like to petition that everyone correspond solely via text. Leave me a post-it note, I'll reply by text message. Shoot me an email and I'll get back to you by way of certified letter. It's not that I want to be impersonal. It is, however, only when I can contemplate for no less than an hour, research if necessary, write the rough draft, proofread for grammar and punctuation, re-write, and then deliver, does my true wit and charm shine.

This is genius. I think I'm really onto something here.

I'm neurotic today because...
...being mute seems like a better option.

My tunnel vision

There's a fine line between determination and stupidity.

My adventures in Bikram yoga (or as my uber-witty little sister refers to it, 'hot (as hell) yoga') illustrate this point quite aptly. Two sessions into my mini-membership, I'm totally convinced this is something I can do. My body, on the other hand, is not. It continually reminds me, 'Hey idiot, remember grade school? You couldn't even reach the ruler in the sit-and-reach...what the hell are we doing here again?'.

Last evening, nevertheless, I schlepped my hind parts into the 105-degree heated room once more, totally determined to complete every pose with style and grace. Just remaining in the room for the full 90 minutes was no longer good enough for me. That goal is for amateurs, I tell myself. Just focus, breathe, feel the energy.

Little did I know that Mary Lou Retton would be gracing us with her presence. Okay, it wasn't Mary Lou, but she was very bendy. In fact, she might be the bendiest person I've ever seen first-hand. She was poetry in motion. Her Floor Bow Pulling Pose was beyond my comprehension. From what I can gather, the goal of this position is to balance your entire body on your belly button. For the love of all things sacred, she contorted her body into the shape of a 'U' like it was her job. No joke.

My awe of this woman only serves to spur on my determination to conquer Bikram yoga. Nevermind what my body says. Nevermind that I battle waves of nausea and black outs just to remain in the room the entire class. Nevermind that, although every ounce of reason tells me Bikram's claim that I 'will have worked every muscle, tendon, joint, ligament, internal organ, and gland' is just pure poppycock, I'm fairly certain my ascending colon is sore today. Nevermind all these things.

I'm neurotic today because...
...conquering hot yoga has squashed all trace of rational thinking.

My writing instruments

Let's talk highlighters.

Generally speaking, I'm highly opposed. I only use a highlighter for two specific purposes: marking off patients who we've seen in a day and checking off insurance payments I've entered into the system. And not just any highlighter will do. If I were to use anything other than pink on my schedule, I'm pretty sure great misfortune would reign down upon me. This morning, I had to exchange my green highlighter for another green highlighter because it was too yellowish (under no circumstance do I use a yellow highlighter). Who could work under such conditions?

Sharpies, on the other hand, are brilliant. You don't need reasons why, they just are.

I'm also a big fan of the pencil. Call me old school, but there's nothing like the feel of wood-encased graphite between my fingers. Maybe it's a sign of underlying commitment issues or something, but whenever possible I use the pencil. And I'm not talking those fancy-schmancy refill kind of pencils. It has to be old fashioned, pull the suction-cup-crank-style pencil sharpener out, pencil. The calendar has to be written in pencil. School notes have to be in pencil. And you should only have two-to-three pencils in rotation at a time. Use them until they're nubbies and then retire them in some sort of decorative glass encased shrine to salute all the hard work they've done for you. It's just the right thing to do.

I'm neurotic today because....
....I cannot function without the proper writing instrument.

My backpack

I'm not your typical woman. I don't take pleasure in spending hundreds of dollars on designer purses. In fact, the mere thought of that gives me guilt. Instead, I live out of my backpack. I'm pretty sure I could make anything happen from my backpack. If aliens came down from the skies and attacked earth, I could survive for weeks from the contents of my backpack. I love that everything I own has it's own compartment in my backpack. I love the Swiss Gear people for making my backpack.

I love my backpack.

The semester from school has recently ended and I attempted to transition to a purse like every other perfectly functioning woman on the face of the earth. This (surprise, surprise) has resulted in an unusually high level of anxiety. What if I need the bandaids I keep in the front zipper pocket? Or what if I need a pencil and don't have access to my nubbies? What will I do if a patient comes in with Prader-Willi Syndrome and I don't have my medical encyclopedia? How can I survive without my beloved backpack?


I'm neurotic today because...
...I don't have my backpack.