Anxiety, Culture

The Geritol Gang

folgrWhile at the place where much of my life unfolds, Safeway, I learned something interesting about Hawaii youth. Don’t worry this has nothing to do with boy’s peeing. The cashier told me that I had just missed all the excitement. He went on to explain that a bunch of kids ran out of the store in an attempted robbery. I wasn’t impressed. He shared with me the cell phone pic of the kids being apprehended in the parking lot. Still not impressed.

However, he then enlarged one of the pics detailing the booty that these juvenile delinquents stole and I was shocked…at the lameness.  For immediate barbecue and consumption they stole meat. They also stole alcohol in order to sell to liquor shops. OK, fine, this is getting a bit interesting. In addition to the meat and booze, they steal Folgers Coffee and Tide Pods. What the fuck? Who steals laundry detergent and coffee? My brain can’t even wrap itself around the pods, but the guy on-line behind me chimed in and said, “Yep, Tide is a big seller out there. People want the Tide.” The coffee makes the least amount of sense to me because we are in Hawaii where Kona coffee is the big draw. Maybe that’s just for tourists and the locals prefer Folgers?

PATROn the two-minute drive home, I realized the items I would have stolen as a young teenager would be vastly different from the items I would steal as I approach 50-years-of age. The younger me would have stolen panty hose, because if I lived on the mainland and worked in New York City, this would have made perfect sense. I would have stolen several pairs of tweezers, because I have thick eyebrows and a uni-brow is never in style. Makeup…a shitload of costly make up. Us females are basically paying for the packaging of this stuff anyway. Mine as well steal a bit to make up for the difference.

LEGGS

As an old coot, I would steal batteries for my….use your imagination. Maxi-pads for my Aunt Flow. Tylenol for both my Aunt Flow and the headaches that usually accompany the phone calls made to family. Tweezers because a uni-brow is still not in style and as my memory deteriorates I lose them constantly. Ear plugs for my ears which get more sensitive yearly to the sounds of outdoor life which annoy me; kids playing basketball, dogs barking non-stop, sirens of any sort and my least favorite sound of all time – people schlepping their plastic garbage bins up and down their driveways. Our driveways are only a few feet in length. What are these people doing with their garbage? I swear it sounds as if they are square dancing with those damn garbage pins.

When my ‘want to steal’ list includes Tylenol and maxi-pads and no longer contains make up and panty hose, it might be time to admit I’m old as dirt.

 

 

 

 

 

Anxiety, Depression

Fashion While in Eternity

hell2I would like to say that I’m a very spiritual person, but I’m not. Neither am I someone who needs empirical proof that things exist beyond my ability to see them. I’m just of the belief that I don’t have the time or desire to wonder where my soul will go after death because my current body and mind have so their own issues to deal with.

Likewise, I don’t have the inclination to speculate whether a loaf of bread falling off the shelf means one of my dogs is trying to contact me from the rainbow bridge. Life after death was a common theme in the 1980’s on Oprah Winfrey, Phil Donahue, and Montel Williams. Stories of individuals traveling towards a bright light and then seeing themselves from above became commonplace. Those who have died often say they are free from the physical illnesses they were plagued with here on earth. However, there is one aspect of the hereafter that I do think about and not shockingly, it’s really stupid.

hell4How come no one ever mentions what age they are restored to during this excursion to the bright light? More importantly what are the deceased wearing upon their arrival? Not to look a gift- God in the mouth, but depending on how I looked at the age that I’m restored to, it might not be that much fun. Think of all the awkward stages we have in a lifetime. For me there was the flat chested, gap tooth era, and the uni-brow, mosquito bite boobs era.

These are just descriptions of what I physically looked like, but how I dressed was even more offensive. What if I’m restored to 80’s gear with neon leg warmers and lingerie worn as outerwear? What if I’m restored to the grunge period with a flannel plaid shirt tied around my waist? I could definitely get stressed with the thought that my outfit could be seasonal. In other words if I was restored to a Halloween I could be dressed as a slutty schoolgirl and have to spend eternity wearing a garter belt under a short tartan skirt. If its Christmas time I could get stuck in an ugly sweater.

We can all assume that the temperature of hell is on the hot side, but what about heaven? Whats the deal there? I get light-headed if it’s too hot and I’ve been known to shake uncontrollably if it’s too cold. Will there be stores up or down there if I need a a bathing suit or a sweater? What if people pass away while in the hospital would this mean that heaven is filled with hundreds of thousands of people wearing blue gowns with their asses hanging out? What happens if your lucky enough to find two great loves of your life? Where is ones loyalty supposed to be?

Is it wrong to want to know how to best prepare myself for after life? I will spend more time there than I will anywhere else and just maybe this time around I would like to fit in.

Culture

Boys Keep it in your Pants!

PEEWhile at the supermarket today, grabbing my lunch that consisted of a Peach Snapple Iced Tea and a Snickers bar, I noticed a young boy playing hide and seek with his mom. The parking lot of Safeway doesn’t seem like the ideal playground, you know with the cars driving about, but I don’t have kids so what do I know?

A closer evaluation revealed the boy was peeing behind a tree with his mom looking on. I come from a city of 8 million people and unless your homeless you don’t pee wherever you want. Since living in Hawaii I’ve seen this dozens of times. I’ve even seen boys pee on their own front lawn. I mean if your not going to use your home toilet maybe you could at least piss in the backyard.

Am I wrong that unless there is a medical emergency a parent should either take their kid to a public restroom or the kid should freaking hold it? Could this be a cultural thing? To be clear, I’m not one of these women who believe nursing mothers shouldn’t be allowed to breast feed in public. The difference between a mother providing sustenance to her child and a child pissing in public is that…well the kids pissing in public. I would sooner drive to the police or fire department and ask if I could use their restroom than let me kid publicly pee. Maybe if I had a baby brother or a neighbor who had a young boy, I would feel differently. However, just because a guys anatomy allows for easy access shouldn’t mean he can pee wherever he sees fit.

Is this allowed because all parents think that everything their child does is cute? I’m always amazed while watching television the amount of commercials for baby products where the advertiser shows baby butts, and crotches. I get it, but can everyone stop shoving their kids nether regions in my face?

So am I prude? Feel free to tell me so!! People have said worse ; )

 

Love

Converting to a Farm-Gal

farmSORRY FOR REPOST; LONG DAY

I’ve been seeing this commercial for farmersonly.com, which suggests to men that they “don’t have to be lonely with farmersonly.com.” Since I’m a card-carrying member of Match.com, OKCupid, eharmony and seriously considering BlackPeopleMeet.com, I’ve been giving some thought to converting to a farm girl. Below is my pro/con list:

Con’s to farm life and a farm man:

  1. I DON’T EAT MEAT. This would mean my farmer would have to grow vegetables.
  2. I can’t wear plaid.
  3. Despite picking up dog poo for most of my life, certain smells cause me to dry heave for hours at a time. This could be considered rude or psychotic.
  4. At least in movies farmers look like they are very close to their families. Conversely, I live on a rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean many miles from my family and have one sibling I don’t talk to.
  5. I have a strict policy of not waking up before the sun does.
  6. I can bet my life that my liberal views on politics would make my farmer want to put me out to pasture.
  7. I often get physically injured when faced with fencing and materials that need to be hammered or sanded down.
  8. The couple above isn’t wearing any shoes. Despite living in a state where the most common shoe is a flip-flop, I don’t like to walk on grassy areas without shoes and socks. Maybe its an occupational hazard that comes from being a pet sitter. I just know too much to walk on grass barefoot anymore. Friends don’t let friends get Leptospirosis.
  9. Can’t help but notice the yellow labrador pictured above is clearly disinterested in this couple. If two models dressed like farmers can’t get one of the worlds most friendliest creatures to even feign a smile, than I certainly wouldn’t get along with real thing.
  10. The gentleman pictured, while clearly good looking, appears slightly metro-sexual. I would be quite surprised if he even knew how to turn on a blender let alone large farm equipment.
  11. I watched a show last year, which reenacts amazing rescues. There was a gentleman who fell into a silo filled with corn and he sunk like a stone. Apparently vegetables can kill.

Pro’s to farm life and a farm man:

  1. Farm men probably have nice arms.
  2. I’m a fan of men in Levi’s.

Well…there we have it. As desperate as I am to find my spoon, I think I can find a Levi-wearing, good-armed vegetarian who doesn’t live on a farm…I hope.

Love

Is it Really Better to have Loved & Lost?

While dealing with a bit of heartache, I was thinking of the quote “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
LORDAlfred Lord Tennyson authored this little nugget and contrary to popular belief it was never meant to refer to romance. It was the result of his best friend and classmate passing away at age 22.

Many people make the mistake of attributing this quote to Shakespeare. I can only assume the possibility exists that many broken-hearted people are walking around quoting the Lord to make themselves feel better. However, the reality is their soul is crushed and the only reason they are not taking a golf club to their significant others head is because of this misunderstood piece of wisdom.

Regardless of why Tennyson penned this quote, I actually beg to differ. I don’t believe that tis better to have loved and lost. I would consider it a treat if a man could just once leave me exactly the same way as he found me. No better, and no worse for the wear. I’m sure Tennyson would be in disbelief to learn that when a couple dissolves in this century they can each stalk each other as much as they wish, which leads to one party feeling like they have an active relationship with the other.

If I could forget that I recently had a great time, maybe the following would not occur:

  • Sudden bursts of diarrhea
  • Crushed self-esteem
  • Intense feelings of rage towards men
  • Additional grey hair
  • Binge eating which ties into the diarrhea…sorry : )
  • Frequent trips to the car wash where I can primal scream
  • Rage-full texts and e-mails sent from yours truly, which will now live in cyberspace longer than I will exist on this earth

With that said if you are male and should see me on the island of Oahu, unless you are the most emotionally available person you know, please refrain from approaching me. May God be with you if your male, a jerk and you approach me during a certain five days of the month.

 

Depression, Nostalgia

Games People Play

PerfectionThe toys I played with as a child should have been reserved for those living in padded cells. I liken the stress of playing these games to what it might feel like if someone strapped a bomb to my head and said don’t move.

Don’t Spill the Beans was a nifty game that involved placing fake beans in a cauldron presumably filled with boiling water. The players try to avoid being the bean placer who causes the cauldron to tip over. This game could quite possibly be why I can’t be around any vessel holding any hot liquid.

At least in Don’t Spill the Beans the player can only suffer fake third-degree burns unlike the game of Don’t Break the Ice where the consequence of losing is fake involuntary manslaughter. This fun-filled game has opponents using plastic mallets to break away ice blocks where a little man just happens to be sitting. When his block breaks he’s presumed dead since he will plunge through the frigid ice. I always felt if the man were dumb enough to sit on a chair in the middle of an ice pond, maybe our gene pool would have been better off without him. Everyone knows you should always lower your center of gravity in a situation like that, not pull up a loveseat.

The only game more fun than playing with fire and ice is performing surgery. The game of Operation requires its players to perform surgery on a pasty man who is composed mostly of fat and thirteen fake body parts. Anytime a player’s scalpel hits the metal that surrounds his organs, an alarm sounds and his nose lights up. Has anyone noticed that this guy is obese? Even if a player could avoid sounding the alarm while removing his organs, he is well on his way to a coronary.

The game responsible for most of my post-traumatic stress is Perfection. This is a nasty game, likely invented by a horrid person who probably hated kids. I can’t imagine a better way to risk a child’s confidence than timing him or her on any task. Children fit plastic pieces in corresponding holes within a prescribed time and when the player fails not only will the alarm sound, it does so in concert with a physical explosion that chucks every correctly laid piece into the air.

All this childhood torture was for naught since none of these games taught me a damn thing that I could take with me into adulthood. I can’t recall the last time someone asked me to place a small vegetable on an even smaller pot of scalding water. Thank God I’ve never shared a frozen lake with a person hell-bent on drowning me. Maybe games where there is no winner would have been more appropriate. I did enjoy Lite Brite, but because I was the world’s youngest masochist, I preferred the self-loathing that came with a game like Perfection.

Any games that might have contributed to post-traumatic stress for you?  Hang Man done on paper, Charades and that stupid game where you put your hands on top of someones palms and wait for them to smack you all count!

 

comedy, Culture, Depression

Mixed Eggs and Scrambled Feelings

EGG.Before Top Chef and Chopped there were lesser known cooking competitions that aired a jillion years ago. A short-lived program involved a European Chef and his gorgeous model wife who performed the show from their stunning home. If you were a woman watching this show it was almost impossible to maintain even a low level of self-esteem.

To qualify as a contestant on the show the host asked the cooks to prepare an egg any style. I couldn’t understand why cooking an egg would be a litmus test for chefs and I still don’t. However, what I did learn recently is that for me cooking an egg is symbolic of my life. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here; I’m not talking about renewal or hope. I suffer from depression…eggs remind me of my fucked up life.

My eggs are always free-range, scrambled with tomato and shredded cheese. I drop two small pats of butter into my heated pan and then wait one complete second for the butter to melt. I then hang a fork which I dipped into the raw eggs over the pan so I could test an egg dribble for proper heat. For thirty years the “after dribble” has played out the same and I have ignored signs that a disaster or at least a bad egg awaits.

Instead of cooking, the egg dribble spreads a little and then rests as if mocking me. I wait a full two seconds and dump eggs into pan. Shockingly, I learn that waiting only three seconds for butter to heat is illogical even with the best stove. The heavy shredded cheese stays wherever it landed in the pan while the lighter weight tomato pieces travel within the goo slightly. Thirty years of egg cooking and I have never heard the sizzle that is supposed to happen when egg meets pan. What is it about just waiting for the pan to heat the butter adequately that I can’t do?

My lack of patience and sometimes terminal uniqueness has caused many challenges in my life. I’m not letting the pan-of-life heat up enough, not letting things just happen. In the last year I have:

  • Rushed a relationship, lest the man not be interested if he got to know me better. This of course leads to said man running wildly into woods while screaming.
  • I have lost my shit repeatedly while waiting for returned texts and e-mails from…you can guess who.
  • Ignored reading “how to replace a toilet lid” directions only to buy a stumpy lid for an elongated toilet. Now every time I sit down the lid violently shifts to one side.
  • Experienced hundreds of Mac “Wheel of Deaths” from moving faster than my Mac, which in the end delays anything I’m working on.
  • Finished friends sentences because I just couldn’t stand waiting for them to say the same thing for the million time. In case you haven’t done this to friends, I can tell you first hand, THEY DON’T LIKE IT.

One of the differences between children and adults is the ability to delay gratification. I honestly feel that I delay gratification for so long that I should be considered a martyr. For instance, I wait too long to eat or drink while I’m working and then complain that I have no time for sustenance. I guess I have the least amount of patience when the most amount of feelings are invested. I’m positive if I wait I will be forgotten about. So like an annoying nat, I keep popping back up.

So there you have it…eggs on low heat don’t cook well. Life on impatience doesn’t work.

Anyone else out there rush to wait? Please tell me I’m not the only one…