coffee

Domain Thing

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It wasn’t that long ago I didn’t even know what a domain name was. I avoided the whole technology thing for awhile… Or at least longer than many of my peers. I put off getting a cell phone for a LONG time until it became necessary. I told people it was because I quote: “Did not want to be that accessible.”

Amazing how time changes things. It’s almost impossible to remember life before email or the internet, isn’t it? Then a few years ago it was Facebook. Sometimes I literally sit and hurt my head trying to recall what life was like Pre-FB. What in the hell did I do with all of that extra time? I don’t think I read more books. I don’t think I exercised more. I certainly didn’t bake, crochet, cook or clean. Maybe I just watched more CSI and Survivor.

So now I find it extremely curious that 2 days ago I broke down and bought and registered my own domain name: womaninthrisis.com. That’s right. I’ve become one of “those people” that I swore I thought I’d never become. I own a website. I am a blogger. And it’s a little unsettling.

Back in the CSI and Survivor days, bloggers and people with their own websites were (to me) nerds who never saw the light of day. They were spindly with translucent skin and bloodshot eyes. They slept all day and stayed up all night in their dark little caves, stabbing away at the keyboard with great gusto illuminated by the other-worldly glow of the monitor. They wrote about conspiracy theories, dark matter, worm holes and absolute zero.

While I, with my expensive, fake tan, french manicure and well-toned muscles did “normal” things like sit on my ass all day at Starbucks drinking iced-caramel machiattos and people-watching… Or perfecting my downward-facing dog, warrior and sun salutation in the mornings and paying $50 a month to literally get the crap beat out of me by my kickboxing instructor every other night.

My, my, my how things have changed. See, the thing is… I love to write. I have ALWAYS loved to write. Except that now I have discovered there is this amazing community of people all over the world just like me who enjoy sitting down at the computer, basking in it’s other-worldly glow and pecking away at the keyboard sharing thoughts, ideas, observations and inspirations about day-to-day life… And anything and everything from conspiracy theories to the perfect french manicure. And I have found it to be fascinating and fun.

Though, I do have just one question…

Do my eyes look bloodshot to you? Maybe it’s time to drag out the yoga mat… Or hit the gym. UGH. As the proud, sole owner and proprietor of  Woman In Thrisis, who has time for all of that now anyway? Soooo… make my caramel mach a double, please. And where’s the number for that tanning salon?

Saints and Spaghetti Throwers

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No one knows you quite like your sister does. Especially if she’s the big sis’ and you’re the lil’ one. Older sisters not only know you but with their level-headed sensibility, they somehow manage to love you despite all of your crazy-little-sister, attention-seeking idiosyncrasies anyway.

My sister and I could not be more different. She is only three years my senior but the age gap may as well be 30. She is far more mature and “grown-up” than I am. She is raising seven children and acting out the part of the dutiful, loving wife and little-league-wrestling-basketball-band-choir-soccer-mom like a champ.

My sister is also a saint. She assists in the day-to-day operation of my brother-in-law’s business, works a part-time job, does the laundry, cooks the meals, drives random neighborhood kids (as well as her own) all over God’s green earth, does the household shopping, plants flowers in her yard, hangs little, cutesy, seasonal, artsy-craftsy things on her front door and runs the church nursery. I honestly do not know how she does it. As far as I know… she does not take drugs… So I’m just assuming that she is some sort of non-human, pod-person. It’s either that or she never sleeps.

I, on the other hand, am a spoiled brat. I become completely overwhelmed at the thought of feeding myself, emptying the dishwasher and doing laundry in the same evening. When I’m not at the office, I like to sleep or lounge around watching countless hours of Seinfeld re-runs, Hoarders, cheesy rom-coms or mafia movies while eating food that I did not make.

I enjoy being “Crazy and Fun Aunt JoJo” to my nieces and nephews, getting HER kids so riled up that she has trouble getting them to go to bed. They are teenagers… yes, I said teenagers… S-E-V-E-N of them. In fact, she has more kids than there are letters in the WORD “seven.” I know. It is mind-blowing. And I—having no children of my own and even less responsibility—love to teach them things that will annoy her.

Once when she and my brother-in-law were going out for the evening and she asked me to come by and “help” the kids with their dinner, I thought it would be much more fun to teach them how to tell when the spaghetti was done by throwing it against the walls of her kitchen. We had a blast. And the kids, in turn, thought it would be fun to teach me the “Target Denim Song” in order to further irritate their mother because they of course knew that I would sing it… incessantly. You know the song… the one that goes: Denim. Graphic Tees, leggings and tunics. Well denim, backpacks, headphones, hair-ge-e-el. Denim. Shaun White hoodies and denim… Something like that anyway.

Good times.

But here’s the kicker… I am the one who is an emotional mess. I am the nervous wreck. I always have been. I am the one with all kinds of time and freedom and zero tax-deductions and I’m the one taking meds! It boggles the mind how two people, born of the same parents and raised under the very same roof could wind up so completely different. But what I love, what I LOVE about my sister more than anything is that even though we could not be more different… she GETS me. She gets me and she loves me anyway.

The sign hanging above my stove is a recent gift from my sister “just because.” Does she know me or what?

5 Signs I Should Have Had Decaf

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Standing in the long line at Subway for lunch yesterday it began to dawn on me that perhaps decaf would have been the wiser choice of java that morning… Why did I suspect this? 

  1. The man immediately in front of me, pacing, dancing around and grabbing / eating bags of chips from the front of the counter—that he hadn’t even paid for yet—was so jumpy and jittery that he began to make me nervous.
  2. The man standing in front of him had a tag sticking out of the back of his shirt and I had an overwhelming compulsion to violently rip it from his collar.
  3. The woman seated to my left was laughing so loudly and so obnoxiously that her shrill joviality made the concept of chewing glass an attractive option.
  4. The couple standing in the middle of the restaurant yelling to an acquaintance (who was standing RIGHT BESIDE THEM by the way) about their newly-rented, 10-bedroom condo in the Outer Banks incited such extreme annoyance that I felt the sudden urge to throw my purse at them while simultaneously yelling: “NOBODY IN THIS RESTAURANT CARES HOW MANY BATHROOMS IT HAS!”
  5. I honest-to-goodness imagined yanking the cell phone from the hands of the girl behind me and tossing it into the cucumber bin simply because I hated her ring tone.

Somehow, while all of these crazy imaginings and urges were flashing across my mind, I managed to look calmly out the window and settle my gaze upon a lovely maple tree that was just beginning to blush with the colors of fall. That is until my attention was diverted from the tree to the photograph hanging on my right. It was of a local high-school cheerleader—whose big hair and ridiculously-happy smile—made me want to slap her.

See, I told you… decaf.

Vices

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So I’m beginning to wonder how healthy my occasional formula for surviving-a-busy-day-while-still-being-able-to-enjoy-the-evening really is. Let’s see… I roll out of bed (usually exhausted), and drag my ass through the early morning routine of showering, eating, facebooking, blog-posting, news-watching, makeup, hair, heels, commute. And by the time I sit down in my office chair, I’m even more exhausted.

I reach for the faithful friend that is a big, fat, coffee mug and I head across the hall toward the office fuel pump… Or rather, the Keurig coffee maker in the break room. One cup starts to perk me up and makes me feel like perhaps I will NOT flop my forehead onto the keyboard and drool all over the space bar as initially feared.

Two cups make me feel like I can begin to pick up the pace. I can actually comprehend my email and voicemail messages. I can focus long enough on my tasks at hand and begin to feel like I am climbing on top of the To-Do list, rather than lying prostrate beneath the weight of it.

Three cups enable me to operate under the assumption that I can take on the world! I am returning emails, answering the phone and taking notes while performing Photoshop miracles. I can whip out an ad layout standing on my head with my hands tied behind my back. And I am greeting everyone who walks into my office with the loudest, cheeriest and most hyper “HELLO!” that they run scared in the opposite direction.

However, by the time I get home and it is finally time to unwind and relax… I wonder why I am so keyed up. Perhaps a nice glass of wine will calm me down and ease me into the evening so that I can eventually drift off to dreamland peacefully and soundly.

So… I reach for the faithful friend that is the corkscrew. I nearly shatter my sparkling-clean wine glasses as I reach for one since my hands are shaking like mad from all the caffeine I’ve ingested throughout the course of the day. One glass starts to enable me to take deeper breaths as warmth and calm gradually spread through my limbs. I think that perhaps I will NOT bite the head off of the first person that speaks to me as initially feared.

Two glasses allow me to feel like I can begin to cope with the reality that I will have to do this all over again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I can relax and focus long enough on an exchange with my boyfriend / mother / father / sister / niece / nephew / neighbor / friend so that they will believe I am happy, engaged and perfectly willing to handle whatever it is they say to or ask of me without “losing it” because I am “overwhelmed” or “stressed.”

Three glasses enable me to operate under the assumption that I can take on the world! And just as I attempt to take on the world… my forehead flops onto the keyboard of my laptop and I begin to drool all over the space bar.

The Septuagenarians in Starbucks

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So there I am, on my lunch hour waiting at the Starbuck’s counter inside Barnes & Noble, 2 bargain books in hand for purchase along with my Iced, Venti, fat-free, half-caff, extra-caramel, caramel macchiato.

One of the books perched precariously on my arm was about a Southern Belle who seemingly gets away with killing her high-school sweetheart (for awhile) until it catches up with her years later in modern-day Chicago. And the other is a parodied, How-To sex book chosen as a gag gift for my best friend’s upcoming bachelorette party.

I am almost giddy about my cheap and decadent literary purchases as I anticipate the rush I’m about to feel from all the sugar and caffeine I’ll soon be consuming in my coffee confection.

As I hand my books to the cashier and eloquently—if not poetically—place my order, I become aware of two grey-haired gentlemen approaching from behind. One man, who I’d guess to be about 75, is speaking very loudly to the other about how he has to take his pill very soon. They are eye-balling the menu and scratching their heads when I hear them mumble to one another the ultimate question: How in the HELL do you just order a “regular cup of coffee” in this place?!

While I am paying for my purchase, the cute little green-apron-clad barista asks the gentlemen what they would like. One of the men says very clearly to her: “I would like a REGULAR coffee please. None of that special stuff will be necessary. I just want your plain Starbucks coffee.”

The girl in the green apron hesitates slightly and says to the man in a slightly raised voice: “Sir, we have SEVERAL varieties of Starbucks coffee here.” And then she launches into a sermon about light and medium roast blends versus richer, darker blends.

The man tries again, this time attempting to be a bit more adventurous, and trying to meet her in the middle with attempted “coffee-house speak” by ordering a Starbucks “House Blend.”

The barista, exasperated by this man’s total inability to relate to the extensive foreign-language menu hanging ominously on the wall, practically shouts: “Sir!?! We have many, MANY HOUSE blends. Which ONE can I get for you?!?”

He leans across the counter to meet her gaze, agitated, and now aware of the “stir” (pun intended) this exchange is causing and replies: “You know, all I want is a basic coffee, just a BASIC coffee. I don’t know how to read that DAMN menu!” Then unintelligible and frustrated grumbles and mumbles come from both of these poor men.

By this time, the cute little barista in the green apron has transformed into a wild-eyed, cup-wielding, crazed, green-aproned MONSTER as she throws the cups around, heaves heavy sighs, rolls her eyes and begins to fill his cup with something hot and brown… presumably and Lord willing, some type of “basic” coffee.

As I take my receipt and fold it into my purse… concealing my grin the entire time, biting my lip and trying desperately not to laugh at the scene I’ve just witnessed… I see a 70-ish woman behind the men in line say to them in a soothing tone: “Come on guys… just accept it… we’re living in the 20-something century now.”

And I walk away.

Looking back on what that lady said to her fellow septuagenarians was actually quite profound. At first I thought she was referring to the 21st century in which we now live… but she couldn’t remember whether it was the 20th or 21st. However, with our culture’s exponentially-increasing pace, it could ALSO be called “the 20-something century”… because I’m sure that to the 70-somethings, it is the youth—the “20-somethings”— to whom THIS century now belongs.

Secret Single Behavior

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While not everyone is a Sex in the City fan, I would venture to guess that everyone has some secret practices or behaviors that they would just assume keep that way. I have been a fan of the show for years and have seen every episode at least 3 times. But one of my favorites is the one where Carrie is adjusting to a new life living with Aidan, her boyfriend who has just moved in…

“Carrie lamented to the girls about the loss of her “secret single behavior,” which for her includes eating a stack of saltines with grape jelly while standing up in the kitchen reading fashion magazines. Miranda admitted, “I like to put Vaseline on my hands and stick them in those Borghese conditioning gloves while watching infomercials.”

I have lived alone for 6 years now and am currently in a long-distance relationship. Therefore, much of my weekly interaction with “the man” is via phone or Skype. The other night while on the phone with him we began talking about the things we do all by ourselves when no one is around. In other words … our secret, single behavior (SSB).

I realize that by sharing this with all of you, it will no longer remain “secret,” but that’s OK. I’ll still keep the really odd or creepy ones to myself. I feel like sharing mainly because I am fascinated by human behavior and this inquiring mind wants to know what your SSB is. You know… the old I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours kind of thing.

Here are a few of mine:

When no one is around, I like to…

  • mindlessly watch reruns of Seinfeld and Friends (that I have seen a thousand times already) while reciting the dialogue in tandem with the actors. Verbatim.
  • bake fresh cinnamon rolls and drink mugs of warm coffee while watching indy films and staying in my pajamas for as long as possible on Saturdays. Even if it is mid-June and 75 degrees and sunny.
  • eat microwave caramel corn for dinner.
  • literally lie on the floor playing cat and mouse with Stan, my cat. Obviously, I am the mouse.
  • curl up with a heating pad when I don’t have cramps. Even if it is mid-June and 75 degrees and sunny.
  • read 3-months worth of horoscopes from my Glamour magazines while studying the calendar.
Now that I’ve shown you mine, will you please show me yours? Add to this list in the Comments section and either make me feel like I’m more normal than I suspect or share with all of us just how weird you are.