Humor

I Hate Camping

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I remember the day with startling clarity. It was the day that I finally accepted my disdain for camping. I was in the mountains of New Mexico, gazing out across a picturesque valley with a deep blue lake surrounded by lush pine. The water was sparkling in the sun like a thousand white diamonds while a cool breeze caressed my face… and I was elbow-deep in nasty, tepid, grey water… washing dishes.

“I think I hate camping.” I said to my friend who was sunning herself on a nearby picnic table. Now, to convey the actual weight of this statement coming out of my mouth you must understand something. My ex and I owned a camper. A REAL camper, loaded down with all of the trappings for camp life… from the fireside cookware to the pump-it-yourself travel toilet (which never got used anyway because no one wanted to clean it). And the friend that I was speaking to was one-half of the couple that we always camped with.

“Seriously?” she asked me. “You don’t like camping!?” Her voice raised an octave and cracked as though I had just confided in her that I was, in reality, a Russian spy working undercover in America’s desert southwest.

“Yes. Yes I do.” I said matter-of-factly with a growing air of confidence. “I mean, look at us. We are on VA-CA-TION (said extra slowly and loudly for maximum emphasis and effect). We took actual time off from work to come all the way up here, set up camp, don filthy flannel and sport greasy hair only to do DISHES in nasty water, sit in the dirt and stare at one another. IT’S WORK. It’s all work (again with the slow yelling for effect). And I can be doing this WORK at home. Except that at least there I have hot running water and an actual toilet that flushes and clean, soft things in which to wear, sit and sleep on!”

She sat on the picnic table staring at me in utter shock and disbelief while I poured out my dirty little confession. I didn’t care if she disagreed. I didn’t care if I offended her. It was my moment. My epiphany. WHY must I love camping? Who decided that humans should just LUUUUUUUV camping? Because it sure as hell seems like everybody does. Or at least that’s what they tell you. It’s what they want you to believe so that you will think they’re this outdoorsy, tree-hugging, adventurous individual capable of just “goin’ with the flow” and bein’ “one” with nature… Well, it’s a load of crap. And if they think it, they should just admit it. Like I did on that day.

It was a thing of beauty I tell you. Making peace with the fact that I did NOT enjoy this thing that I was supposed to enjoy and not being afraid to say so.

So today, for anyone reading this, I’m going on public record and proclaiming that I DON’T LIKE CAMPING!!! Why should I set up an entire HOME outdoors when I already have one indoors? Why should I wash my dishes in gross, tepid water, carry a damp roll of toilet paper under one arm and a shovel under the other while trotting off to the bushes to “do my business,” sleep downhill with my head or other critical body parts on a rock (when tent camping at least), schlup around camp all dirty and smelly with nappy hair and covered in scratches and bruises from aforementioned bush-peeing or rock-sleeping? Hmmmm?

I love to do all SORTS of outdoorsy things. Fishing, hiking, mountain climbing, whitewater rafting, horseback riding, SCUBA diving… the list goes on. In fact I’ll try just about anything… once. But when I am done with my adventure for the day, I want to order dinner from a menu and for someone else to set said dinner on a warm plate in front me. I want to sleep in a fresh bed surrounded by endless, fluffly layers of down-filled goodness. I want a hot shower and clean underwear. I don’t think this is too much to ask.

In one way or another, if you are going away somewhere, camping or otherwise, you are most likely taking time off from work, packing your things, and spending money. Therefore, why shouldn’t my precious time and money be spent paying SOMEONE ELSE to do the dishes?

Where There’s Smoke…

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While furiously wiggling out of my skirt and heels and into jeans and a pair of snuggly Uggs… I heard it. And I knew what it was. I simply did NOT have time to deal with it. Not yet. I had two hours of daylight left and a two and a half hour drive ahead of me. Oh and did I mention that it was a two and half hour drive toward an I-need-a-break-or-my-head-is-going-to-explode weekend? Yeah, well it was. It was imperative that I leave right THEN… noise or no noise. It was absolutely critical that I hop in my car and drive 75 mph toward 48 hours of spending time with my man, sleeping as long as I want to and indulging in more than a few tall glasses of beer.

The sound to which I am referring (but chose to ignore) was the annoying “my-battery-is-low-you-irresponsible-bitch” chirping sound that smoke detectors make to alert the resident that their untimely death-by-fire is imminent. So the battery is low in one of them. Big deal. There are two others in the house and I’ll change it when I return home early Sunday evening fully refreshed and renewed.

It was a decent plan—had it actually worked out that way. Instead, I return home a little too late and a little too tired from a little too much fun and all I want to do is relax, watch some crappy re-runs and go to bed. Naturally, I had completely forgotten about the smoke detector’s demand for juice. But it wasn’t long before I was reminded.

Reclining in front of aforementioned crappy re-runs, I heard it. Alright, which one of you is unhappy? I was within ear-shot of all four of the potential offenders. There are three smoke detectors and one CO detector. Muting the TV and getting up from my chair, I stand in the middle of the house and listen—ears tuned like a bat. Ah-ha! It is the one in the kitchen! I run to it and stand beneath it waiting for one more chirp just to be sure. And I DO hear it again… but not from THIS one. Damn. I think it’s the CO detector in the stairwell. I run to the stairwell where I am in sight of both the CO AND the upstairs smoke detector. I will surely be able to identify the malcontent this time. And there it is again! But it isn’t coming from EITHER ONE of these. Damn. There is only one left, but it is in the basement and it CAN’T be that one because the sound wouldn’t be nearly as loud as it is. And I have now wasted 20 minutes on this frustrating and obviously futile effort. I will just have to dismantle ALL three of the suspects if I am ever to find peace.

Carrying a dining-room chair around the house to use as a stool (I’m only 5’2”) I rip each one from its resting place and pry out the batteries. When all is said and done my kitchen counter looks like Ted Kaczynski’s workbench, but at least now I will have some peace and quiet. However, while getting ready for bed… I hear it AGAIN. It was faint, but unmistakable. By process of elimination and demolition, it has GOT to be the one in the basement. Standing in the basement now and staring up at the OBVIOUS offender, it looks back at me… silently.

So I make a call to my father, who yes… happens to live right across the street. The chirping continues UNTIL my father arrives in his pajamas… at which point that vexing chirping completely STOPS altogether. Of course it does. He checks the only one left—the one that I am positive it CANNOT be: the basement one. Aaaaand just as I suspected, that one IS working. He tests it and points out the little red light that is blinking on and off to demonstrate that it is indeed in working order. Damn.

There was nary a chirp the entire time he was in my house, doing a complete walk-through and taking inventory of my destructive quest-for-silence handiwork. Of course there wasn’t. He leaves. I stare at the remnants of my “safety devices” scattered across the kitchen counter, daring them to chirp at me again. I know the batteries have all been removed, but at this point, what else could it be? Can they continue to chirp WITHOUT their batteries like a chicken continues to run around after its head has been chopped off? Maybe they can. Out of desperation, I decide to have a conversation with the whole obnoxious gang as they sit there smugly—mocking me. And I ask them calmly to shut the hell up and assure them that they will ALL receive stupid new batteries tomorrow whether they need them or not. They remain silent. Perhaps I have been heard.

In a tense quiet I go upstairs and crawl into bed, praying that I have had the last word. I pull the covers up to my chin, close my eyes and begin drifting off to sleep… when all the sudden, piercing the darkness is—you guessed it—a singular, taunting chirp. Disgusted and defeated, I put a pillow over my head and decide that they may have won this battle… But tomorrow I will win the war.

“On the Side” a.k.a. High-Maintenance

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The 1989 hit movie When Harry Met Sally is a beloved favorite for men and women alike. It was then and remains today a spot-on, hilarious narration of the intricacies of the male/female romantic relationship.

A couple of weeks ago while I was folding some laundry, it came on the TV and of course, for probably the 18th time… I watched it. And once again, for probably the 18th time… I laughed. Only this time I laughed at something I’d never really noticed before, but has since become a regular source of conversation and comedy in my own relationship.

Early in our relationship, my boyfriend and I watched this movie together. One night, months later, when we went out for dinner he called me “Sally Albright” after I finished placing my order.

At first I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about—Sally Albright. Sally Albright? First of all, WHO is Sally Albright and WHY exactly, did he think that I was SHE? Then he reminded me of the following scene from the movie when Sally Albright and Harry Burns sit down to eat at a diner for the very first time:

Sally: I’d like the chef salad please with oil and vinegar on the side, and the apple pie a la mode. 

Waitress: Chef and apple a la mode. 

Sally: But I’d like the pie heated, and I don’t want the ice cream on top. I want it on the side, and I’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it. If not, then no ice cream, just whipped cream, but only if it’s real. If it’s out of the can, then nothing. 

Waitress: Not even the pie? 

Sally: No, just the pie, but then not heated.

OK. So maybe Sally was a bit, shall we say, particular about how she wanted her meal… but come on, she’s paying for it. But what I call “particular,” most men call “high maintenance.” And such was the case with Harry / my boyfriend.

Of course, what I want to know is: What is wrong with wanting things “on the side?” Salad dressing on the side… sour cream on the side… guacamole on the side… extra avocado slices for your sandwich on the side… extra limes wedges for your margarita on the side… an extra shot of tequila for that same margarita on the side? Since when did asking for anything “on the side” turn into being “high-maintenance”? To answer this question, I’ll refer to a scene from later on in the movie:

Harry: There are two kinds of women: high maintenance and low maintenance. 

Sally Albright: Which one am I? 

Harry: You’re the worst kind; you’re high maintenance but you think you’re low maintenance. 

Sally Albright: I don’t see that. 

Harry: You don’t see that? Waiter, I’ll begin with a house salad, but I don’t want the regular dressing. I’ll have the balsamic vinegar and oil, but on the side. And then the salmon with the mustard sauce, but I want the mustard sauce on the side. “On the side” is a very big thing for you. 

Sally Albright: Well, I just want it the way I want it. 

Harry: I know… high maintenance. 

And there it is. The male take on “On the side.” But I still don’t see the problem here. This is, after all America, and if we CAN have things “on the side,” then why are we considered “high-maintenance” just because we ask for it?

There are things that I prefer a certain way… and if, by requesting them, I am not placing anyone in harm’s way… then I just don’t see the problem. For example:

  1. I like to sleep with four, fluffy, down pillows. But only at night. During a nap, I prefer ONE down pillow and a body pillow.
  2. I like to wrap up in soft, fluffy blankets and it doesn’t matter where or from whom I have to steal them.
  3. I like so much ice in my drinks that with every sip I get the sensation of licking a glacier.
  4. I’ll only drink the orange juice that has NO pulp in it (served over ice).
  5. Individual foods on my plate must NOT touch one another. Unless it is Mexican food. And I prefer to eat one food at a time around the plate… usually in a clockwise direction.
  6. I feel it is perfectly appropriate to call the front desk and register a complaint if my hotel room does not look exactly like the one on the website.
  7. I feel it is equally appropriate to request that compensation be made for the aforementioned false advertising. And that said restitution ought to be delivered in the form of additional fluffy, down pillows.
  8. I place all of the items on my desk at 90 or 45-degree angles and specific items must be parallel or perpendicular to one another or I cannot get any work done.
  9. I must arrange my highlighter pens according to the colors of the rainbow.
  10. I like all of my picture frames to be turned at exactly the same angle on the desk / shelf / table / dresser / entertainment center… and just because I can immediately, upon entering the room, determine that one of them is a degree or two off and I cannot sit down or relax until I fix it…

    Do these things make me high-maintenance?

Sally Albright. It is a nickname that my bf still calls me to this day. And although I have absolutely NO idea why… What else can I say?

I just want it the way I want it.

Nyquil: Makes Colds (and Cash) Disappear

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It’s quite a racket really. A multi-billion dollar industry feeding off one of our most basic of needs… the need to feel better. Fast. Proctor and Gamble, Johnson and Johnson, Bayer, Halls and Kleenex (just to name a few) have us right where they want us.

Standing in the cold and flu aisle at Rite-Aid last night my head was spinning. Perhaps it was the sinus pressure or just a good buzz from the expired Dayquil I had consumed hours earlier. But I actually suspect that I felt faint due to the ginormous, yellow price tags beneath all of the items I needed to purchase in order to feel relatively human again.

$10 for a 4-ounce jar of Vicks Vapor Rub?  Yeah, we here at Rite-Aid think that’s a fair price. $7.99 for 12 sore throat lozenges (with magical healing vapors, don’t forget)… Halls believes thats reasonable. $16 for a combined package of Dayquil and Nyquil (the-nightime-sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-best-sleep-you-ever-got-with-a-cold) cold medicine—the mere 6-day supply… Proctor and Gamble considers that two-for-one deal a real bargain! And you know what? Of course they can charge whatever the hell they want to because by the time we’re actually standing IN THE AISLE of the store, our judgement has already been severely impaired by our insufferable symptoms.

So basically the small blue basket hanging on my arm that is barely one-third of the way full is worth my entire paycheck. Hmmmm… how badly do I want to feel better? If I don’t get some relief, I won’t sleep. If I don’t sleep, I won’t do a good job at work. If I don’t do a good job at work, I’ll lose my job… leaving me broke and penniless and unable to purchase this outrageously-overpriced shit in the first place. It truly IS a dilemma.

I settle on a compromise of buying ALL generic and only the necessities. I selectively choose to address the ability to breathe, the ability to swallow without the sensation of downing shards of broken glass, and some assistance with sleep. Oh and some assurance that I won’t fly into a sneezing fit during the next staff meeting and risk being mistaken for an epileptic in the midst of a gran mal seizure.

Let’s face it, when it’s all said and done and the 10 days that the “common cold” takes to “run its course” are up… I am left with the remains of these costly items. They’ll wind up in a box or on a shelf or tucked waaaaaay in the back of a cabinet somewhere. They’ll join the ranks among the other useless, dried-up, crusty members of my ever-growing collection of expired jars, tubes, bottles, blister packs and baggies that are cluttering up random corners of my home because for reasons beyond my comprehension, I refuse to throw them away.

And this small fortune will sit there—gathering dust—until A. I move. Or B. I need to make room for another year’s cache of cold remedies. Or C. I am hospitalized for consuming some antihistamines that were around during the Clinton administration.

The Art of Estimation a.k.a. Creative Fabrication

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I have decided that I am now in my “mid-thirties.” That IS how old I am these days. Please note that there is no longer a number attached as I’ve recently decided to boycott the practice of citing exact numbers for things… this includes, but is not limited to: height, weight, age, salary, money spent on a particular item, Oreos eaten in a single sitting and the number of alcoholic beverages consumed on any given weekend.

Estimations and approximations are much more mysterious anyway—thus more interesting. Not to mention they are much easier to remember which is a VERY good thing since aging seems to adversely affect our ability to accurately recall information.

Estimating and approximating are also handy little skills when it comes to interpersonal communications that involve delivering the kind of information that is not necessarily true, but that we know someone WANTS to hear. An example of this would be:

–      RANDOM PERSON I JUST MET:  How old are you?

–      ME: Mid-thirties

–      RANDOM PERSON I JUST MET: How old do you think I am?

(See I think this person is at least 55, but I know that they would much rather be thought of as 10 years younger than they actually ARE, so the Art of Estimation comes into play)

–      ME: Oh… I would guess you to be in your mid-forties.

–      SHOCKED AND FLATTERED RANDOM PERSON I JUST MET: Really!?!? WOW! Thank you! I’m actually 57.

And I’ve just made this person’s day. All because I practiced the Art of Estimation and Approximation. The artistic part is knowing how much one can actually get away with. If you pad the numbers too much, your efforts will be seen as transparent. No more than an attempt at false flattery… and Random Person will dislike you for it. This principle is also extremely effective on people you feel intimidated by or people who feel intimidated by you.

A word of caution: Utilizing this form of communication on family members, loved ones or co-workers (in other words, those who know you best) can be extremely dangerous if demonstrated carelessly. As with anything worth doing, it is worth doing WELL. Goodestimating a.k.a creative fabrication or the effective glossing-over of details takes practice. But don’t be shy! Get out there, stand up straight, flash your most genuine smile and try it out on a few unsuspecting strangers first while you hone your craft.

The Life I Was Meant to Lead?

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Every morning after hitting the snooze button for probably the sixth time, I crawl out of bed and curse the morning. Staring in the mirror at the matching set of luggage beneath my eyes and the pillow marks etched deeply into my face, it becomes increasingly clear to me… This is not the life I was meant to lead.

I believe with every fiber of my being that I was meant to be rich and pampered. This is not a new concept for me. In the early years I merely thought that I would enjoy living that way.Who wouldn’t? However, things grew more serious as I became cognizant of a subtle but consistent migration toward behaviors and attitudes supporting this “I deserve to be pampered” way of life. And now… NOW it has become a full-on revelation that this is WHO I AM and I shouldn’t fight it any longer.

You see I am discovering as I get older, that there are very few things that I actually care to do for myself. Why can’t someone else do my laundry, iron my clothes, change my sheets, make my bed, empty my dishwasher, clean my house, wash and wax my car (no, make that detail my car), do my grocery shopping, cook for me, sort my mail, pay my bills and clean up after the cat when he hacks up a hairball on my freshly steam-cleaned-by-somebody-else white rug?

And while we’re on the subject of doing things vs. NOT doing things… Why must I work? I mean at all? Why can’t money just appear in my bank account? Why can’t I spend my days sleeping until the Lord wakes me, reading and watching television all the while becoming a student of Suze, The Doctors, Oprah, Chelsey, Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha—learning how to lead my very best, fiscally-responsible, healthy, witty, well-balanced, fabulously-accessorized life? Why can’t I spend my days shoe shopping in the farthest-reaching corners of the globe? I mean seriously, I really FEEL it in my bones that this is the life that I was intended, no make that designed to live.

Which then begs the question: If this truly is WHO I am… yet there is still no magical trust fund with my name on it… What in the hell am I supposed to do about it? As long as I continue to do my own laundry, ironing, dishes, etc. I will feel like I am living a lie.

I suppose I shouldn’t completely lose hope. They say that knowing is half the battle. And if that’s true… then I guess I’m at least halfway there.

Taste the Rainbow

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Although only 36, my daily needs for pharmaceutical assistance seems to be growing exponentially. Granted, it is largely due to the psychotic, indecisive weather we’ve been having lately, but still the collection seems to grow by the day.

In an effort to shave valuable seconds off of my usual morning rush-around routine, I have begun setting out this plethora of daily meds the night before. I open each impenetrable child (AND adult) proof bottle and count out the colorful pills that will assist me on the next day’s journey.

Sitting in the bottom of my cereal bowl, they strongly resemble a handful of Skittles. They exist in a myriad of shapes and colors and look rather enticing as though they might actually be sort of yummy…

  • The red one bolsters my immune system, gives me energy and helps to naturally regulate my central nervous system.
  • The pink one keeps my eyes from watering, nose from running and throat from itching.
  • The orange one enables me to breathe with my mouth closed.
  • The peach one calms me down and takes me to my “happy place” whenever I choose to go.
  • The yellow one works to eradicate the infection that has taken up residence in my sinuses and inner ear.
  • The green one acts as an herbal crutch that claims to stave off the troubles of an immune system crippled by the violently swinging weather patterns this time of year.(The jury is still out on whether or not this one even works.)
  • The blue one allows me to walk amongst the living relatively pain-free.
  • And the purple one… well that one is for everyone who comes within 50 feet of me. It pretty much protects them from my misguided wrath, inappropriate emotional outbursts and/or tears.

Needless to say, I am looking forward to Mother Nature making up her damn mind about whether it is summer or still spring or winter or what-the-hell-ever . But until then, I’ll fill up a glass of water each morning and continue to taste the rainbow. Trust me, it really is best for all of us.

The Post-Vacation Funk

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post vacay funkI just returned from a glorious, much-needed, 8-day vacay up and down the New England coast with my man… and yes, it was A-MAZ-ING. However… it is now official. I am in the midst of a full-fledged, hard-core, post-vacation funk. And I am here to tell you that the fabled funk is very real and I would argue that it is an inevitable occurrence in the life of any vacationer.

All the fun you’ve been planning for, saving for and laid awake with great night-before-Christmas anticipation for … is over. The photos are now in your camera instead of the brochure and the t-shirt is hanging in the closet.

Mind you, the funk does not occur overnight. Rather it seeps into your conscience slowly and before you know it you are completely mired in it. Suddenly you find yourself knee-deep in the reality that you are neither: A. Independently wealthy, or B. Free from the obscenity that is Responsibility … with a capital “R.”

When you first arrive home—a weary traveler surrounded by the familiar sights, scents and sounds of your “stuff”—you can’t help but experience Dorothy’s “There’s No Place Like Home”  feeling and sleeping in your own bed (on the memory foam that still remembers you) is blissful.

The next day comes and whether at home or the office, it is a flurry of activity. You’re answering emails, returning calls and taking care of household chores with that rested, happy glow that only a true getaway can provide. You’re still sportin’ the chilled attitude that comes from spending 7 days in flip-flops and you are recounting the details of your adventure to anyone who will listen. People expect that you will not exactly be “at the top of your game” since your head is most likely still in the clouds (or on the beach, or in the mountains, or by the pool, or at that really cool bar you found) and minor errors and gaffs are swiftly forgiven.

Day three brings with it the bi!@# that is reality. The alarm sounds for the second time since you’ve been back and you suddenly remember that this was why you went on vacation in the first place … to escape that d@mn alarm and the daily grind that follows it.

Day four is the same as the third only worse. The alarm clock hits you like a punch in the face reminding you that yesterday was not a fluke or a joke or a drill or even a bad dream. YOU. ARE. NOW. HOME. And it is only Wednesday. This is when you begin to play a sadistic little game with yourself that I like to call: “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago Today?” And a word to the wise about playing this game: The non-vacation version of you will always wind up the loser.

By the way… exactly ONE week ago today… I was still in bed… but whatever. I’m not playing.

By day five you understand your fate, but you do not necessarily like it. Anger builds. You can’t stop playing the “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago Today?” game every time you open the empty refrigerator, notice a heaping pile of laundry, encounter a pair of sad and sandy flip-flops lying lifeless on the floor or walk past the growing stacks of mail and dwindling supply of saltwater taffy on your dining room table.

It is at this point that you begin to entertain wild imaginings about how you might achieve the life of a full-time vacationer. What if I just disappeared?  What might the consequences of that be?  How much DO they pay those people who change sheets and fold towels at all those charming, little B&B’s? Is it hard to learn how to make saltwater taffy like the guy in the window at that quaint candy shop on the pier? Is it too late to get a degree in Recreation or Hospitality and Tourism Management? Am I too old to become a deck hand?

They say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and finally Acceptance. They are not necessarily experienced in order. The bereaved might vacillate between the five for several weeks or months languishing for a time at one stage or another. So far I think I have experienced all of them and it has yet to be one week.

Hopefully by the time I unwrap and consume the last piece of taffy, I will have quietly accepted my life just the way it is. It’s either that or you will likely find me behind a glass storefront in a hairnet and white gloves, pulling taffy for tourists.

The Finger

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I got the finger from an 80 year old woman on my way to work this morning. No… not the finger you’re thinking of. This was worse. It was the angry, jabbing, pointing index finger instead. You know… the scolding you’re-being-a-bad-girl-and-you’d-better-behave-or-else-you’re-really-gonna-get-it finger that your mother gave you if you were taunting your sister while she cried or you so much as glanced at the cookie jar 30 minutes before dinner. The one that apparently STILL has the power to reduce an independent, 36 year old woman to a puddle of shame.

I guess she was cranky because … OK … maybe I almost sort of pulled out in front of her this morning when turning off my road and heading to work. I wasn’t actually going to pull out in front of her. Of course I was going to stop. Or at the very least pause. Due to the disparity between parking spots and automobiles in my neighborhood, many people are forced to park on the side of the road, leaving a driver no other choice than to pull a little further out into the road in order to see around said vehicular visual obstructions. This is allI was doing—checking for traffic in the middle of the road—in order to proceed safely and merrily on my way.

And she freaked. And the finger came flying out with great gusto! At first I was shocked by the overt aggression in her appalling gesture… then a fraction of a second later extremelytempted to give her the index finger right back. But then I thought better of it, given that I most likely reside within a 2-block radius of this woman. If the saying goes that you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, then I would venture to go one step further and say that you ought to keep your neighbors right under your nose… and remain squarely in their good graces.

However… I would also say that this whole unpleasant situation could have been avoided if only she had stayed in her house and off the road until the regular morning commute was over. See, I have this theory. Do you want to hear it? If not, I suggest you stop reading this right now because of course you know I am going to share it.

Here goes: People who are (for lack of better words) retired and unable to drive at least the speed limit should NOT be on the roads between the hours of 7-9 a.m. and 4-6 p.m. I feel this should be a law. From 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. they can have at it. As far as I’m concerned—the roads can belong to them. Here is my reasoning… many of these people aren’t fond of theI’m-in-a-hurry-and-need-to-get-where-I’m-going-NOW-because-my-5-yr-old-had-a-meltdown-this-morning OR the I’m-exhausted-from-cramming-my-non-work-life-into-4-hours-every-evening-so-I-overslept-this-morning-thus-causing-me-to-rush-around-to-get-to-work-on-time dilemmas that 8 to 5 commuters have. In fact, they often perceive the aforementioned rushed drivers to be “annoying” or “threatening” or “dangerous” or “insane” or “scary.” And it is because of this conflict that—when on the road at the same time—things can turn ugly in 0 to 60 seconds.

So to my neighbor and her guilt-wielding, road-raged appendage I say: Either stay off the road or I suggest you holster that finger. Because next time… I might just fire one right back at ya. Have a nice day.

Fending Off Crazy Cat Woman

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I could feel the stranger’s eyes boring into the back of my skull and the heat from his stare on my neck. “Don’t judge me.” I thought to myself as I set the groceries on the conveyor and glanced over my shoulder at the man standing behind me with his filled-to-the-brim shopping cart.

I put the plastic divider in place after pulling the remaining items from the cart and reviewed my impending purchases… A quart of skim milk, two containers of flavored coffee creamer, a bottle of OJ, one box of cereal, a loaf of bread, a brick of cheddar, three Lean Cuisines and 10 cans of cat food.

My tiny bundle of staples barely covered a third of the checkout counter. And it occurred to me that the aforementioned items probably screamed: “CRAZY, SINGLE, CAT WOMAN!!” to anyone who cared to investigate what it was I was buying. I wondered if he felt pity toward me… “Poor woman.” He probably thought. “Mid-thirties. Obviously purchasing dinner for one. Clearly companioned by one or more cats. Poor thing. She’ll probably go home, microwave her dinner and watch Lifetime all by herself.”

It’s what I would have thought. I judge people based on what they buy at the grocery store all the time.

Sensing his judgment and pity I smoothed my skirt and stood a little taller trying to act all nonchalant, confident and indifferent as to what anyone thought of me and my two-cans-shy-of-a-dozen cat food collection. I interacted with the checkout girl by enthusiastically chatting her up about the weather and the upcoming weekend to illustrate that I do, indeed, have social skills and some semblance of a life. She rang me up, we bagged it up and I strutted out of the store like I owned it.

“I am not a crazy, sad, sorry, single, cat woman. I do have a boyfriend. I am a perfectly happy, successful, well-adjusted, strong woman. ” I said with my body language. “You don’t know me.”

Perhaps my affinity for TV shows that delve into the intricacies of the human psyche is to blame for my hyperactive-grocery-store-paranoia. Consistently watching CSI, Criminal Minds and House might be the reason I ask such questions as: What do these purchases say about me? What would an FBI profiler glean from the ratio of human to feline food in my pantry? If someone murdered me in my home while I slept, would the cops feel sorry for me when they processed the crime scene?

Then again… maybe I just watch too much TV… with my cat.