Humor

Me? A Morning Person?

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As many of my regular readers probably already know… I am NOT a morning person. In fact, I am not even really an “awake” person. I love sleep. I adore sleep. I like falling asleep, staying asleep, going back to sleep, talking about sleep, writing about sleep, planning for my next sleep and finding extra time in my schedule for… you guessed it… sleep.

But, you see… I started something this week. It was kind of an accident and now it has snowballed into this whole “morning person” thing. And well, let’s be honest… mornings interfere with sleep… So I have what you might call a bit of a dilemma on my hands.

While trying to make an important deadline for work, I stayed up one night until I just hit the wall. It was only midnight, but I could go no further. So… as much as I HATED the thought of it… I had but one choice. Go to bed right then, set the alarm for an hour and a half earlier and get up and go to the office in the wee hours so as to meet said deadline.

And you know what? I got up, I ate a healthier, low-calorie breakfast, I encountered little traffic on my commute and the time alone at my desk proved to be quite productive. By the time my co-workers began to arrive, my early-morning-I-hate-everyone-and-am-bitter-because-I-am-awake fog had begun to lift. I felt alert and ready to tackle whatever challenges the day had to offer.

However, as with anything worthwhile… there is a price. By 5 p.m., though there was definitely still work to be done, I was done. I could work no more. I was tired and cranky and ready to hit the couch in my favorite baggy t-shirt and sweats. Well, I thought… I guess I’ll get up early again tomorrow and finish up this work before the real day begins.

This time, I went to bed one hour earlier and set the alarm for two hours earlier than usual. I got up, ate the healthy, fiber-packed breakfast, sped to work like a demon, got the best parking spot and finished several projects before anyone else dared darken the doorway.

By today—the third day—co-workers and Facebook friends have begun to wonder what the hell I’m doing up so early. (Like I’m not wondering the same exact thing…) “What are you doing up so early? What are you doing up so early?” everyone keeps asking me. And I tell them that I’ve just been finding the mornings to be a great time to get work done…

Not to mention that (as an aside) I’m secretly hoping the uber-early, super-healthy, low-calorie breakfast of champions combined with multiple cups of coffee may help me shed these unwanted pounds in time to break out my sweater dresses. Because, let’s face it… no amount of Spanx or control-top panty hose is going to hide an extra 10 pounds when it comes to body-hugging knits.

Anyway… back to mornings. So I guess what I’m saying is that there may be hope for me yet. Perhaps I can finally make peace with my alarm clock and stop abusing the snooze button after all. Maybe I can be a morning person! Maybe one day I’ll even get up and do one of the five different yoga DVDs currently collecting dust in a basket by my bed! Or go for a walk in the brisk, morning air… or take up kickboxing again…

But hear this… Morning person or no morning person… Nothing… and NO ONE is going to TOUCH my 12-hours-at-a-time-weekend-sleep-marathons.

The Stupidity of the American Consumer: An All Time Low

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Yesterday I found myself in desperate need of chocolate while on my lunch hour so I stopped in Walgreens to peruse the aisles looking for that certain something that would curb my craving. After careful consideration and deliberation I chose a pack of Rolos and headed for the check out.

There’s always been something I have found infinitely fascinating about the items lining the check out area. They are those last-minute impulse buy items… you know, batteries, lighters, matches, decks of cards, emery boards and toenail clippers… candy, gum, mints, Rolaids, miniature tools, scotch tape, pens and lint removers… chapstick, hand lotion, miniature bottles of Jack Daniels (depending on your state’s laws) and tiny packets of aspirin.

I’ll bet stores make a killing off of these items. If you don’t actually need them right then, you certainly will think that you do immediately upon seeing them. They are practical, every day items that will probably never go to waste. So what’s the harm?

Though it was during this time while casing the cache of goods otherwise known as the Gullible Buyer’s Trap, patiently waiting my turn in line (because only ONE of the THREE cashier lines are actually OPEN — which I’ve decided, by the way, is totally a ploy by upper management to move more of this nickel and dime crap) my eyes fell upon something new!

In the center of all of those must-have trinkets was a little display simply called: “help.” It was colorful and unique with kind of a cool design which is probably why it grabbed my attention in the first place. However, upon closer inspection, I discovered how completely ridiculous this thing actually was. In fact, I found it to be so completely stupid that I laughed out loud as I whipped out my camera to document this odd and asinine find.

Oh yeah… and I knew without a doubt that it would also be the subject of my very next post. Which, as you see, it has become.

The rack held six different color-coded boxes each containing a different product for a different “need” spelled out in very simple letters on a plain white cover. They were (yes, in all lower case lettering—probably because some focus group of imbeciles told them it looked cool): “help I have a headache, ” “help I have a stuffy nose,” “help I can’t sleep,” “help I have allergies,” “help I have a blister” and “help I have an aching body.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Are we really THAT stupid that we either A. Don’t know what the hell to buy for what ails us? Or B. Don’t know how the hell to ASK the pharmacist for a suggestion on what to buy for what ails us?

Listen people, if you don’t know what to buy then you should be talking to a doctor not searching for boxes at the check out counter as though it were some sort of pharmaceutical Magic 8 Ball!

So, I thought that perhaps I could help by offering a bit of advice of my own to assist anyone who feels that THIS is indeed the place to go for medical “help”…

  1. Problem: You have a headache. Solution: You have a hammer in the shed?
  2. Problem: You have a stuffy nose. Solution: Suck it up. It will pass.
  3. Problem: You can’t sleep. Solution: Try a bottle of wine and some Leno. His jokes put me to sleep every time.
  4. Problem: You have allergies. Solution: That hammer still lying around? Seasons will change soon enough.
  5. Problem: You have a blister. Solution: Ever heard of gloves?
  6. Problem: You have an aching body. Solution: Stop doing the thing that makes your body ache.

See how simple that was? And it didn’t even cost you a trip to the store or God forbid — interaction with another human being.

Only the Names Have Changed

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To borrow a line from Jon Bon Jovi: “It’s all the same, only the names have changed…”

This weekend I was back at my old high school to attend a play with which my niece and nephew were both involved. Going back there is always like traveling back in time. Looking around at the familiar speckled floors, weathered wood and red and gray painted cinderblock, I can’t help but remember what it was like to inhabit this space on a daily basis 18 years ago.

In the bathroom at intermission I found myself alone, gazing into an all-too-familiar mirror. The face in the reflection was the same yet different. I squinted at the glass trying to remember what I looked like all those years ago. A million stories have now been written in the laugh lines and worries have a funny way of hiding in the crows feet. If I had known then all that I know now… would my life be any different?

I ducked into a stall and that’s when the real fun began. Reading the graffiti on the walls reminded me that although life has a tendency to rush past us at an alarming pace, much of it stays exactly the same. Though the walls had been painted over and over again—layers of industrial gray paint attempting to hide years and years worth of crude comments, jokes and etchings—the messages still remained.

It was then that my thoughts turned from deep introspection to the much more entertaining realization that there are four kinds of graffiti artists in women’s bathrooms. They are, in no particular order: The Insulter, The Defender, The Editor and The Random Messenger.

The Insulter needs no introduction or explanation. They are the voice of the accuser… The nasty novelist, the crass critic… the bitchy biographer. They pen their dirty, little messages in this place for all to see. Hurtling insults at the speed of a flush.

But Insulters, usually blind with hatred or bent on revenge, tend not to be the sharpest Sharpies in the backpack. And this is usually where the Editor steps in. The Editor feels the need not to correct the sentiment or the morality of the statement being made… but rather the grammar and spelling with which the acrid accusation was crafted.

Inevitably, the Defender WILL step in. Usually a friend of the Insulted… they feel compelled to set the record straight. This might be done by lodging a similar and equally ugly complaint about the Insulter or simply saying something kind about their friend. Sadly, the impotent Defender typically does nothing more than toss additional fuel on the fire.

And the Random Messenger? Let’s not leave them out. For they are a vital, albeit random, part of this primitive femme culture too. They’re the ones responsible for drawing the peace signs and daisies, quoting song lyrics and writing poems. They are the peace keepers. The hippies of high-school toilet hieroglyphics. The members of the why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along crowd. And you gotta love ’em… because they mean well… And they entertain us.

As I left the stall (I know, it seems like I was in there a long time, doesn’t it?) Anyway… as I left the stall I had forgotten about the laugh lines and the haunting memories of days gone by… and I was laughing at the thought of this graffiti and how it hadn’t … in 18 years … changed one bit.

It was then that I ran into a former school mate. We briefly exchanged pleasantries and I remarked about the graffiti and how it is probably exactly the same as it was when we were here. She laughed and said: “Yep. Only the names have changed.”

To which I countered: “I know… According to the third stall… some poor girl named Courtney is the one to call for a good time this year.”

Fun with Words: Cafegymatorium

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It seems that a new cost and space-saving trend has developed in school buildings, and it is called the “Multi-Purpose Room.” This space is usually part auditorium, part cafeteria. It is used for gatherings such as concerts and plays, as well as serving as the lunch room for the kids during the day. The “proper” name for such a room is “Auditeria” or “Cafetorium.” And my former middle school and high school now have one of these rooms in each building.

So popular is this trend in modern scholastic-architecture that it was recently mentioned on an episode of The Simpsons. Lisa Simpson was differentiating a “good” school and a “bad” school, by whether or not the facility had separate auditoriums and cafeterias. She excitedly exclaimed of her new (better) school: “… And the cafeteria and auditorium are actually in separate rooms!!!”

With a mother and father both employed by the schools and six nieces and nephews in the system, I love to tease them about this current Cafegymatorium-Craze. (Technically cafegymatorium is not the correct terminology, but I like to call it “cafegymatorium” because it sounds funnier to me and it annoys them).

In an exchange with my mom this past summer, I had some fun with word-play that prompted a few more potential names for such Multi-Purpose Rooms. How about: Cafegymatoriumeria? Or Cafegymetoriasium? Or Audigymaterianasium?

When my mother finally got fed up with my non-stop harrassment she said: “STOP the madness! I agree that this has gotten totally out of hand! We do have a cafetorium. OR an auditeria, depending on which you think is more important: eating or performing. I know some kids who definitely perform while they are eating. It is amazing to behold.”

My mom’s plea for me to stop led me to wonder (aloud of course): What do you call a kid who performs while he or she is eating? Would they be considered an Eator? Or maybe a Thesbavore? Or perhaps, my personal favorite: a Fooctor?

As of this writing, I have received no official answer on the matter.

Room for Living

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Once upon a time—8 years ago to be exact—I lost about 35 pounds through diet and exercise, landing me at a svelte 100 lbs. Certain I would never again see those 35 pounds, I got rid of ALL of my larger clothes… every last stitch of them. My closet was full of nothing but tiny things to fit my newfound frame.

Fast forward three years… enter a job loss resulting in crushing depression and an inability to keep paying my $55 monthly gym membership… and the 35 pounds came back with a vengeance. When those unwanted pounds returned they brought about 35 more of their friends along for the party. I was the heaviest I’d ever been in my life. And having little money from my minimum wage, substitute job — buying clothes to fit my new fat @$$ was a challenge.

But I had no choice. The job required me to look professional so I had to have a new wardrobe. Little by little and piece by piece I bought back some key items in the larger sizes, but vowed I would get back into those smaller ones as soon as I regained my sanity and sense of self-worth.

Fast-forward another three years toward a satisfying new job in my career field, a supportive, wonderful family and the love of an amazing man and I lost 50 of those pounds again. I’m still not that teensy 100 lbs. but I am healthy for my age and height and I feel amazing by comparison.

For two years I have managed to keep it off. Well, most of it anyway… Save for a few of what I like to call the “fun” pounds. The fun pounds are the little cushion (pardon the pun) that I have decided to give myself without beating myself up or feeling like a failure. As long as I stay within that pre-determined range, I’m OK.

For what exactly are the fun pounds allocated? They are set aside for an 8-day trip up the New England coast where one may choose to eat lobster drenched in drawn butter, varieties of other deep-fried gifts of the sea, maple confections and saltwater taffy every… single… day. They are for summertime ballpark beers, festival food and autumn tailgating fare. They are for fun-size Halloween candy, Thanksgiving turkey and Christmas ham.

Fortunately, this time I did not throw away my larger clothes. Not because I have any intention of going back to Supersized Me, but because Life does happen. The fun happens as well as the stressfulness or unpredictability of everyday life. The curveballs you get thrown so then the ice cream tastes particularly good, the nights you end up working late and pizza is an easy fix or the injuries and illnesses that can wreak havoc on your daily discipline.

And it’s good to know that if the “fun” pounds come back and pay me a brief visit, I don’t have to squeeze into that smaller size and feel like I’m going to rupture my spleen or pop a rogue button. I can slip on my jeans that have a little grace in them… a little forgiveness in the waist, butt and thighs… and I can feel like I actually have some room for living.

Laminating Sarah

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Like a lioness waiting in the tall grass for her prey, I swear they could smell the fear. I walked through the door and 10 pairs of eyes stared up at me from their seats. How bad can this be? I thought to myself. They look harmless enough.

Sitting there quietly around a circular table playing with Play-Doh, the 10, two and three year olds seemed content and well behaved. I’m not sure what I expected… I think something resembling pure pandemonium, but much to my surprise, they were sitting still. I spoke with one of the other teachers. She gave me some instructions on what worked and what didn’t. She told me some ways in which to prevent all hell from breaking loose—which I really appreciated. And then, she closed the door behind her and headed toward the sanctuary.

OK. I’m alone with 10 kiddlets. TEN. That’s… A LOT. I take a deep breath. And I am alone with them for over an hour. An even deeper breath. Exhale. “Hi kids! My name is Joanna and we are going to have some fun! We’re gonna play, listen to some music, then hear a bible story, and play some more! Doesn’t that sound like fun!?!” They’re just blinking at me. WHY are they just BLINKING at me? Isn’t anyone excited?

Frantically, I rummage through the papers I’ve been given. I am supposed to tell these little ones the story of Abraham and Sarah. “Who wants to hear a bible story?” I say with as much excitement as I can muster while thrusting my hand up into the air, hoping desperately that they’ll catch my enthusiasm and do the same. More blinking. Not a single hand goes in the air. OK, now I’m positive they can sense my terror.

Let me just take a moment here to interject that I am not very good with kids. I don’t have kids. I don’t watch other people’s kids. I’m never around kids, save for nieces and nephews. And they don’t count because they have to love you no matter what… that or you can usually just buy their affection with candy & video games and stuff. So when I was asked to teach the 2s and 3s class during the church service every 3rd Sunday of the month and actually agreed to it… I really had no idea what I was in for. OK… back to the story…

“So NO ONE wants to hear a bible story!?” I try for a second time to get them excited about this. However, one by one I watch the children get up from the table and just… wander off. Where are they going? I ask myself. What are they doing? I am dumbfounded at the fact that they are TOTALLY IGNORING me. Initially I try gathering them back to the table but soon realize that this, like herding cats, is a totally useless endeavor.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! I hear one girl whine from a far corner of the room. She is pulling blocks off of the shelves. Another child starts putting plastic grapes on a toy plate and waddles over to a… MICROWAVE? Surely it isn’t plugged in. Surely it is there for preparing snacks or food during the regular school week. Surely he can’t reach… Oh @#$%! It IS real, it IS plugged in and he CAN reach it because he is now microwaving plastic grapes!

“OK, Jeffrey, we aren’t going to PLAY with the microwave. That isn’t safe.” I hear myself say as I take him by the shoulders, remove the plastic grapes from the appliance (thank God they aren’t on fire) and redirect his attention elsewhere.

Mercifully, my sister enters the room then. She is in charge of the church nursery, plus is raising 7 children of her own, so any advice I can get from her at this point would be welcome and appreciated.
“How’s it going?” she asks. “Ummm… good… ummm… (my eyes are darting around the room peeled for inevitable disaster) they… uh… don’t seem to want to listen to me…” My voice trails off as I take MORE things away from Jeffrey who seems to only be interested in contraband.

My sister recommends that I try counting down from 10 minutes to Bible Story Time. Let them know that in 10 minutes we are going to put the toys away, come back to the table and listen to a story, and then go to 5 minutes, 3 minutes, etc. until it is time. This, she says, prepares them for what is to come and therefore it doesn’t become a big “issue” when it’s time for the story. I don’t see how that is going to work any better, but I’ve got nothing to lose. Meanwhile, she offers to bring down some snacks for the kids to have later. And she leaves.

I do the countdown thing, announcing every few minutes how much time we have left just as she suggested. I have no idea if it is working, but we’ll find out. I also turn on some music hoping it will calm me down and lighten the mood.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! I hear the same girl cry out from a different corner of the room. What do these kids have rockets on their butts? How are they moving around so quickly without my noticing?

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! Another girl yells out. What a sweet little angel. 



“6 minutes! In 6 minutes we’re going to pick up our toys and listen to a bible story!” I announce again. By now, my teenage nephew has joined me… much to my relief. My sister, sensing my panic, has sent in reinforcements! God Bless her!! It is another set of eyes, ears and hands to help me corral these little ones for story time.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! She cries out again from the toy kitchen.

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! My precious little angel answers back.


“4 minutes! In 4 minutes we’re going to pick up our toys and listen to a bible story!” I announce again. My nephew informs me that it has been much longer than 2 minutes since the last time I reminded them of the countdown. “What does it matter Cameron… they don’t know the difference! Just so long as the number keeps getting smaller!” I hissed at him through a plastic smile. And Cameron just shrugs while helping 2 little guys make baseballs out of Play-Doh.

“Nuh-uh!” A boy says to me… “I know it’s been longer than that!” And I think to myself: Since when does a 3 year old know how to SUBTRACT!?!

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY! She cries out from inside of a bookshelf.

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! My darling, adorable, peaceful angel answers back.

Since the one little boy is onto my “fudging the numbers” with the countdown thing, I point to my watch and say: “When the BIG hand is on the 12, we’re going to pick up our toys and listen to a bible story!” And he comes over and grabs my wrist, examining my watch to see just how long it is going to be.

I DON’T WANT TO HEAR A BIBLE STORY. She says a little quieter now while standing right beside me.

I WANNA HEAR A BIBLE STORY! My giving-me-hope-and-keeping-me-sane angel answers back.

“OK! It’s time! Cleanup, cleanup everybody do your share…” I sing the song as I gather up Play-Doh and blocks and plastic food. Cameron makes quick work of the cleanup too and surprisingly the children are joining in! It’s working!!! “Time to come sit down at the table now everybody! We’re going to hear a story about Abraham and his wife Sarah!” I practically sing as the children are miraculously doing what I’ve asked! The countdown worked!! It actually worked! And even my little Bible-Story-Protestor is magically seated at the table. I turn off the music.

I’ve been given a packet of materials for story time which includes the story (of course), some worksheets and several large, paper cut-outs of the biblical characters and their props in order to “act out” the story for them with visual aids. I begin telling the story by showing Abraham first. I talk about Abraham and then give him to one of the children to hold. I figure this will keep them interested if they get to interact with the teaching tools rather than just sitting there empty-handed. 



They seem to like holding the paper characters and they even raise their hands to be the next child to receive one to hold. However, they won’t simply HOLD the paper cut-outs like I’ve shown them. Instead, as I work my way through the telling of the story, I see that Abraham is standing on his head, the shepherds and their sheep have gone missing and Sarah is crumpled into a ball. So much for that idea.

Something I want to mention here that I have observed over the years is that young children who have been exposed to church and Sunday school have 2 standard answers that they will give NO MATTER WHAT THE QUESTION IS. They are (in this order): “God” and “Jesus.” Every time. No matter the question. So if I ask them: “Kids, what does it mean to make a promise?” The answer will always be: God! And when I hesitate and say: “Noooo… try again…” Then the answer will be: “Jesus!” And they seem NOT to answer with anything else until they get a bit older.

Of course this case is no exception. Every question I asked them during the story, the answers they gave were always: God and Jesus. And that, folks, concludes the question and answer portion of our time together. After what has seemed like an hour (though I know by my watch it has only been 10 minutes) I reach the end of the story. I think we are all relieved. I pass out the worksheets and TRY to help them fill them out. I figure I have GOT to send these kids home with something to show for their time spent in here. We haul out the crayons and no sooner do I attempt to tackle the first illustrated question… I notice that they have ALL scribbled ALL OVER THEIR PAPERS.

It’s time for potty-breaks and snacks.

Potty-breaks and snack time go over rather smoothly save for the boy who is “helping” pass out the animal crackers by giving everyone else 3 a piece while stuffing 6 more into his mouth each time. That and there was the little girl who wanted so badly to be helpful by giving everyone a paper towel for their crackers… that she eventually pulled ALL of the paper towels out of the dispenser and onto the floor one at a time.

So with one crumpled Sarah… a paper-towel, crayon, worksheet and Play-Doh scrap strewn floor… A boy running around with a death-grip on the animal cracker box… A table covered in crayon marks and cookie crumbs… And three kids arguing over a plate of microwaved plastic grapes… The first parents arrive to retrieve their children. I have no idea what the expression on my face must have been, but it could not have been one of a confident, competent and comfortable child-care provider.

And as each parent left with their child in hand, one by one they asked me: “So how did it go? How was <insert name of child here> today?” their anxious faces desperately searching mine for the truth. And straightening my sweater, I answered each parent by replying: “Oh. It went just great. <said child> was such a good little helper and a good little listener. They played nicely with the others and they picked up their toys when I asked.” In other words… I totally lied. Yeah. I broke one of the commandments. BUT, the relieved parents then smiled and happily walked out the door with their children.

And it was then that I thought to myself: You know… actually… it went just great. The kids were pretty good little helpers and good little listeners (for a few minutes anyway). They played nicely with each other and they picked up their toys when I asked. And a month from now, when I do this again… I probably won’t change a single thing… except for maybe laminating Sarah.

Snooze Buttons and State Troopers

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Friday’s post about my excessive “snoozing” and all of the self-professed snoozers that emerged from the closest as a result, made me want to share something I wrote nearly two years ago. And while (as of this writing) I have not been pulled over in a LONG time (knock on wood)… Clearly the snoozing problem has not subsided.

September 2009

OK. It’s official. I’m getting pulled over WAAAY too many times! I’ve been pulled over 3 times now since May. Now, is it me, or is that a wee-bit excessive? Perhaps I REALLY need to try getting out of bed sooner instead of hitting the snooze button so many times that I end up running late for work and speeding the whole way.

I am no longer paranoid that every cop I see in my rearview mirror is going to turn on those humiliating flashing lights and make me pull off to the side of the road so that everyone can see what a loser I am… either for speeding or for getting caught… I am now CERTAIN that every cop I see in my rearview mirror is definitely going to turn on those humiliating flashing lights and make me pull off to the side of the road and dig for my license, registration and insurance.

In May it was for “not sufficiently stopping at a red light” and I was lucky enough to get off with a warning… something my sister still has not forgiven me for since she was once ticketed by the same officer for a lesser offense.

In June I was stopped for doing 59 in a 45… and the State Highway Patrolman clocked me just YARDS away from the 55 MPH road sign. I thought it was 55… really, I did. He ticketed me to the tune of $125… OUCH. But I paid it, and vowed to not get caught speeding again! I couldn’t afford it!

Notice I said: not get CAUGHT speeding again. I did NOT say: NOT SPEED. And so… here we are 3 months later and I guess the sting in my wallet has sufficiently dulled just enough to let my foot grow a little bit heavier and my guard drop just enough that I didn’t even notice the State Trooper’s car peeking out of the cornfield until I was half-way through the school zone.

I slow WAAAAAAY down, maybe he didn’t see me. I pass him going about 5 miles an hour… and watch out of my rearview. For a merciful second he does not budge… but then he pulls out. I watch his lights… nothing. I am now going 25 in a 55… maybe he’s just moving on down the road, or going somewhere for a coffee and a donut. Oh crap! There go the lights. This cannot be happening AGAIN!?!?! #@$%!

I wasn’t going THAT fast. I had slowed from 60 MPH to 35 MPH in that 20 MPH school zone. How bad can THAT be?! And it wasn’t as if it was a grade school either, where kids could spontaneously dart out at any second from behind the bushes. It was a high school out in the middle of a cornfield. Surely this is not ticket-worthy. Oh, but he’s going to run my plates and see that I was pulled over 2 other times in the last 5 months.

I am so screwed.

For the first time in my life, I find myself pleading with a cop NOT to give me a ticket. I can’t even stand the idea of becoming one of THOSE girls who tries whining to get out of a ticket, but I CANNOT afford another $100+ ticket!! So… as I’m tossing napkins and CD cases and car manuals out of the glove box, rummaging to find my registration I decide to go for it… I’m going to whine… Here goes… “Officer…” looking up at him with the saddest, most pathetic-without-being-over-the-top expression I can conjure up, I say… “do you HAVE to give me a ticket?” and I hand him my license and registration.

He takes my license and registration and says: “I’ll run your license and if it’s clean, I’ll let you off with a warning.”

I am so screwed.

He’s going to see those other 2 offences I just know it. How could he not?!? Surely it’s in some HUGE database somewhere, along with my other civic sins: The fact that I don’t always recycle. And I don’t always clean up after the dog when she poops in the neighbor’s yard. Now I’ll probably not only owe money for a ticket… but my insurance is going to increase or I’ll get points on my license or something terrible. I am such an awful citizen. I should be put in prison. I call work. I’m going to officially be late if I’m not thrown in jail. He starts back toward my window. I’m gonna be sick. I close my eyes, grip the steering wheel and wince… wait for it. WAIT for it…

He starts to hand me paperwork… “Here’s your license and registration back. I’m just giving you a warning today. Watch your speed in those school zones. Have a good day.” OH! God BLESS you, you dear, sweet State-Trooper-Man!!! I hope Santa puts a little something extra in your stocking this Christmas. Whew! THAT was close!

I drive away saying aloud: thank you, thank YOU, THANK YOU!!!!!! I’ll never speed again. I promise. Hopefully this morning was the LAST time I get pulled over for a LONG, LONG, LONG time… but more importantly… my wake-up call to stop hitting the snooze and GET UP EARLIER…

As for whether or not it will work… well, I’ll have to let you know tomorrow.

Snooze Addiction

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Sleep is like crack to me. I love it, I can’t live without it and I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. However, I do have a job and for this reason and this reason only I cannot sleep as often as I would like.

I manage to tear myself from between the sheets long enough to make it through the day. Coffee helps. Much of the time the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning is the prospect of a good healthy slumber later that night.

Having no offspring allows me to indulge in this unhealthy behavior. No one relies on me, save for my co-workers and occasionally my family. The cat requires that I slop a little brown goo into his bowl that he believes tastes like salmon and fill his water dish a few times a day… Toss a felt mouse in the air, rub some catnip into the carpet and let him chase my toes now and then… and he is a happy camper. All the rest of the time he is… sleeping. Usually right next to me.

I come from a long line of “sleepers.” I am told that my grandparents were big on naps and so are my parents. Though my parents somehow manage to nap AND sleep until 11 a.m. most days so… I definitely came by this honestly.

Trying to explain to those closest to me how much sleep I require can occasionally prove quite challenging. I have always needed a lot of sleep and I really, honestly cannot function without it. I’m not just saying that. Have you SEEN the Incredible Hulk? Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? NOW you’re gettin’ the idea.

As is common with most addicts, one addiction can give way to another. And I am afraid that within the last year, I have developed a new addiction. To the snooze button. No matter how much sleep I get… if the alarm is set,  I hit the snooze button like it’s my JOB.

Initially, my use of the snooze was occasional and harmless. You know, a type of recreational snoozing if you will. 7 to 14 minutes, 21 minutes TOPS…  However, something seems to have changed and I am ashamed to admit that I am spiraling steadily downward into an abyss of flashing and glowing green digits and bad early-morning radio shows.

As shocking as it may seem… I now snooze for 60 minutes! I know… the mind reels that one could SNOOZE for such a very long time. And to think… entire, irretrievable hours of my life are now being spent in some dark, sleep-Katy-Perry-Onerepublic-crime-spree-account-Bruno-Mars-Adele-weather-and-traffic-report-awful-DJ-rants-and-jokes-Nicki-Minaj-splintered haze. I would be better off sleeping soundly for 30 of those minutes and just hauling my ass out of bed after the 2nd warning.

Perhaps, starting Monday I will try that and see what happens. If I break this cycle of addiction it could mean a whole new life! And if all else fails… There’s this…

So… That Happened

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I am fascinated by language. I think it’s a safe bet to say that most writers are. Language is a living, ever changing thing that reflects the constant evolution of our culture. Recently, a new phrase has entered our collective vocabulary with which I have become quite taken. I have heard friends and co-workers use it, made note of it popping up on television as part of a scripted dialogue, read it on Facebook (naturally) and overheard it being used on the street.

I get it. I think it’s funny and at times the perfect thing to say… almost like putting a period at the end of a sentence after something has… well… happened. I am confident that I could use it appropriately in a situation and maybe even garner a few laughs. But, given my affinity for words, I was still curious about its true, intended meaning. Therefore, I consulted with what else but the Urban Dictionary to see if it could shed any more light on this new addition to our current pop-culture vernacular.

The Urban Dictionary defines “Well, That Happened” as: A phrase used when something random and/or inexplicable has occurred. It serves as both an invitation to discuss the recent incident or a way to cut off a possible conversation about the incident.

Example:
You witness your naked neighbor being chased by a dog. Suddenly he is hit by a car, leaving him sprawled in the intersection while the dog licks him.

You: “Well that happened.”

Your Friend: “Yup.”

There are also some variations of this form of language that I wish to explore with some examples of my own such as: “This happened”  if you are standing in the immediate presence of something interesting, peculiar or random.

Example:
Out of sheer anger and frustration you take a hammer and smash your wireless mouse to bits, scattering shards of grey plastic and particles of circuitry all over the crime scene. See Of Mice and Hammers for more details on this specific example.

You: “So… This happened.”

Your Friend: “Yup.”

Or… “There’s this” as a way of showing someone something that you find cannot be explained any other way or you just don’t feel like saying any more about it.

Example:
Your friend discovers a photo taken of you during middle school and posts it on Facebook for the world to see. You’re standing with about 3 other friends sporting giant 90’s hair, oversized bomber (or denim) jackets worn atop horrid cable-knit sweaters, turtlenecks and acid-washed-mom-jeans… New Kids On The Block concert tickets in hand.

Photo caption: “And… There’s this.”

All Your Facebook Friends: “Uproarious laughter and comments galore”

There's This.

Look-a-Like Towns

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I grew up in Minerva, Ohio. It is a small town (technically a village) and is situated on US Route 30. Along Rt. 30 there are many other little towns that look quite similar. They typically have a Dairy Queen or dairy bar, a few banks, some churches, a park or two, perhaps a red brick school with a playground and of course, houses that resemble those in and around Minerva. To a small child who lives there, these other little “burgs” probably look very much like home to them.

Such was the case with my youngest niece, Juliann, my sister’s daughter. She is now 13 and would probably hate that I’m telling stories about her as she is at “that age” — you know, the age where you can get the death stare AND a bear hug all within the span of 5 minutes. Anyway, I’m willing to take the risk.

One glorious, fall afternoon my parents decided to take little Juliann with them for a ride in the country. She was about 4 or 5 at the time. They have a Jeep Wrangler and it was the perfect kind of day for leaving the top off, loading up their granddaughter and Sadie (their golden retriever) and heading out.

As is popular to do in this region of the country that time of year, they planned on doing some “leaf peeping.” They drove around for hours on country roads gazing at the stunning fall foliage and soaking up us much of the color and warm sunshine that they could before winter crept in. And although I can’t say for certain, I’ll bet they stopped at one of those dairy bars and had a hotdog and an ice-cream cone or sundae on their autumn adventure.

Coming home, they drove through several small towns near and along Rt. 30 and as they passed through each one, my dad would hear a tiny little voice from directly behind him in the backseat utter the question: “Are we in Minerva NOW, grandpa?” Dad would answer: “No, not yet Juliann, this is… <insert name of aforementioned look-a-like burg here>… but we will be soon.”

Somewhere along the way, as kids do after a day in the sun and wind and with a tummy full of ice cream, Juliann fell asleep. When she awoke they were FINALLY driving through Minerva. My dad, assuming that she would be very excited to be home at last, asked her: “Where are you NOW, Juliann?” 
And her answer was priceless…

“I’m right BEHIND you, grandpa!”