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.