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?