I Drive Me Crazy
We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Some people work out. Some people paint. Others drink. (Not that I'm saying any one particular coping mechanism on that list stands out to me ...)
We all also have our ways of not dealing with stress -- the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that arise when there's a bit too much on our plates and our subconscious rears up in revolt. Some people scream, Some people cry. I forget how to pump gas.
I know, I know, you're probably thinking that that sounds absolutely crazy. But, there's something about the ability to complete day-to-day, mundane tasks that goes completely out the window when I'm consumed by other matters or living too much in my head.
In a situation where others might squeeze a stress ball or indulge in an ice cream Sunday, I find myself absolutely baffled by the idea of choosing an Octane rating.
In high school, when I was struggling with AP Calculus and SAT prep, I went to fill-up at the gas station across the street and just couldn't get the pump to work. I told the gas station attendant that his pump was broken and that he might want to check on that ASAP.
"The pump isn't broken," he said.
"Yeah, it is," I said. "Why else wouldn't I be able to get gas? I'm not an idiot, you know."
The only trouble was that in that situation, I was being an idiot. After fuming back to my car, I realized I hadn't lifted the lever that triggers gas flow at the pump.
I have probably been spoken to through the intercom at the pump more than any other human being on earth. That magical, difficult-to-comprehend voice has informed me that I forgot to pay at a pre-pay (overwhelmed by errands), do not have a Diesel engine (dressing down from the boss) and, during an ill-fated trip to New Jersey, that it was illegal to pump one's own gas in that state (relationship trouble).
No matter how well I think I'm handling life, the gas station is my ultimate test: Can I fill the tank without threatening the attendant or banging my head against the steering wheel? Will I find myself entangled in the gas hose? Will I be able to reward myself with a single bag of Cheetos?
Luckily, in these days of working from home, I'm operating on far fewer tanks of gas per month. Otherwise, between the bills and my concerns for the characters of General Hospital, there could be trouble.
Weekend Tidbits
Here's the most awkward conversation I participated in over the weekend:
On Saturday, I had lunch with a friend. I noticed that the soups of the day weren't posted anywhere, so I approached the woman working behind the counter.
Me: Do you have soup today?
Female Employee: Yes.
I waited because surely she would understand that wasn't enough of an answer. She didn't.
Me: Could you tell me what they are?
Did she really think that I just wanted to know that there was soup? Next time I visit this particular establishment, I'm going to order a soup and sandwich combo -- without specifying which soup or salad. It seems that the details are getting in the way.
Here's the most awkward conversation I witnessed over the weekend:
On Sunday, I went to pick up some photos at the One Hour Photo Booth at Walgreen's. (Please keep in mind that I visited the ONE HOUR Photo Booth.) A woman and her daughter were in front of me in line.
Walgreen's Photo Lady: When would you like these back?
Mom: When can I have them back?
Walgreen's: We can have them ready in an hour.
Mom (to her daughter): Wow, can you believe that? Only an hour? That's so fast.
Who would ever guess that the One Hour Photo Booth could have pictures back in an hour? And they say truth in advertising is dead ...
Friday Night Fever
A few weeks ago, I went down to Mobile for the Osiris Mardi Gras ball.(Osiris is the only all-inclusive Mardi Gras ball in Mobil, if you getmy drift. In 2008, there were two kings rather than the standard kingand queen.) I had a great time, and despite my normal aversion toparades, I found that my love for free stuff far outweighs my disdainof floats and crowds. Once I had collected a few dozen moon pies, somenecklaces and a plastic rose, I deemed the Mardi Gras parade a success.
Anyways, on my way down, I had to stop for gas.
Now,I am not a stopper. When I'm on a long car trip, my pit stops areminimal. My poor sister still complains that when we drove home for theholidays from D.C. she was allowed two stops — one in Roanoke and onein Knoxville. (Those are the cities 1/3 and 2/3 of the way home foranyone wondering about the logic.) A common conversation went somethinglike this:
Rachael: Laurel, I think I need to go to the bathroom.
Me: Ooh ... Hmmm ... Do you think you could hold it for awhile?
Rachael: How long is awhile?
Me: Two hours ... two and a half hours tops ...
With the rideto Mobile being about four hours, I figured that I could have one stop,max. I would have to get gas, food and a bathroom break all in oneplace. And, since I knew I wouldn't have much time between arriving inMobile and going to the ball, I also had to pick up anything I mighthave forgotten there. (I usually have to find an exit with a CrackerBarrel for the books on tape and a BP gas station for my gas card, sothis particular combination wasn't even really all that taxing.)
Ipulled over in Clanton for the Whataburger and the BP station with theconvenience store. There, I bought batteries for my digital camera,minis of white zinfandel for my pre-ball cocktail and duct tape for myboobs. (I couldn't wear a bra with the dress I had brought.) I stillfelt somewhat shameful about my shopping list three hours later, so Ihad to tell my friend R about it.
Me: Is it sad that I bought batteries, white zin and duct tape in a Clanton convenience store to start this Friday night off?
R: What's sadder is that most Friday nights in Clanton probably start out that way.
From the mouths of gays, I say. From the mouths of gays ...
Super Models Have it Rough
Thanks to Cosmo (a gift subscription, I promise, and something I never would have read apart from the oh-so-ridiculous cover blurb "An Orgasm Almost Killed Her: We Are Not Kidding"), I have discovered the top three reasons I will never look like Victoria's Secret swim suit model Marisa Miller -- apart from genetics and an aversion to exercise, of course:
According to Marisa, one must "cut out soda, salt and booze. They cause bloating, so don't have them before you have to get into a swimsuit."
Oh, Marisa. Sure, you have a life of exotic travel, money and fabulous clothes, but a life withou Diet Coke and red wine? I don't think so. And no salt? Salt is a wonder. Have you ever had the bread at Macaroni Grill? The one covered in sea salt? And don't even get me started on kosher salt. Add kosher salt to a little olive oil, and I would probably eat in on anything. In fact, I find it makes green vegetables and anything whole wheat that much better ...
So, if the choice is soda, salt and booze or bathing suits, my vices are going to win (as per usual). And I think that's the way it should be.
Bellying up to the Bar
I didn't bring my lunch today, and I didn't feel like going out atnoon, so this left my mid-day meal to the whims and fancies of ourbuilding's cafeteria. Now, please bear in mind that there's nothingwrong with our building's cafeteria, it's just that no matter what's onthe menu for the day or how many heart-friendly meals they offer, Iwalk through the door, smell what's on the grill and feel powerless toorder anything other than a cheeseburger and fries. (Considering howmuch time I've spent staring at Carroll Krieff as I do my MalibuPilates workout, I'm very much trying to kick thisimpulse-cheeseburger-buying habit. I've also been avoiding checking themail so I won't be tempted to go for my 4:00 peanut M&M's either.My life is hard.)
After checking around and seeing the aforementioned cheeseburgers,some roasted meat saturated in good-smelling juices and cheesypotatoes, I felt that my safest bet in light of my new goals was thesalad bar.
Now, you see, I'm not good with salad bars. And it's not about theprevalence of leafy, raw, green things that are actually healthy. Thething is, I have a problem with buffets.
The moment there's a large array of food with no establishedregulations on quantity of combination, I lose all sense of reality,portion size and taste. I am the proverbial kid in the candy store.Suddenly, I want anything and everything, and I completely disregardcommon sense, my own health and well-being and what I've learned inyears of dining experience.
Example: There was a very popular lunch buffet in the basement of myoffice building in D.C. I only went there once because when I did, Icame back with a to-go box full of baked ziti, egg rolls, hash browncasserole and roast beef with horseradish sauce. Sure, all of thesethings are wonderful. But, they're also all wonderful on their ownand as the centerpiece of a meal (except for the egg rolls, but go withme in that Chinese and Italian cuisines are not to be enjoyed at thesame sitting). These items are not meant to be consumed at once. Trustme. My taste buds revolted. My stomach revolted. And I'm pretty sure Ididn't do my arteries any favors either. Plus, I spent $9.00 becauseyou paid by the ounce. Nine dollars at a lunch buffet?!?! Oh, theshame.
I also cannot order anything that comes with the salad bar atJason's Deli. It's like being outside of my body and watching someother poor, misguided soul eat her weight in mini-muffins and softserve ice cream long before her sandwich ever hits the table.
Even today, at our cafeteria's salad bar, I had to fight hard tokeep myself from loading cherry tomatoes, red onion, broccoli,mushrooms, carrots, cheese, hard-boiled egg, chicken, craisins,croutons, goldfish, bacon bits, sunflower seeds, radishes and a littlecornbread (from the soup selections) onto my soon-to-be-drenched-in-three-kinds-of-vinaigrette salad. Because it's there, Ithink I have to have it, and therein lies the problem.
Whether it was the added decorum that comes with being in my place of business or the lingering effects of other incidents,I'm proud to say that I restrained myself at the salad bar today. And,in my world, any day I show the slightest restraint is a good day.
The Market
Last night, I stopped by the grocery store for a quick run. (I had cravings for quiche, pigs in a blanket, and a baked potato. Go figure.)
As I was checking out, the guy who worked there looked at the rawhide bone I was buying and said, "Oh, someone has a little doggie." ("Doggie" was his word, not mine.)I just smiled and nodded. (Personally, I really don't like it when strangers comment on your purchases. It only confirms my worst fears about being judged and watched by others. I don't want the Wal-Mart photo tech to tell me "not to worry" because "my photos came out cute," and I certainly don't want the woman at the Western to tell me "that all women go through it" when I'm picking up my monthly Midol and pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. I feel as if these moments should pass without comment.)
But, I tried to be polite anyway.Then, he corrected himself and said, "Or maybe someone has a big doggie..."
"It's a medium sized dog," I replied, almost cheerfully. "She's right in between."
"I guess she's like her mistress then," he continued, "not too big and not too small."
Well, let's just say that that's not what I needed to hear. Some people might infer that this meant I was "just right," be we don't live in the world of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," and I don't like it when the word "small" is not applied to me.
Plus, being told you're not "too big" is hardly a compliment.There has never been a time I've gotten dolled up and wanted a date to tell me that I wasn't too big. Sure, maybe if I was trying to squeeze out of a small opening to safety, it'd be great to hear that I wasn't too big, but next to underground shaft trappings and the like, I think it's a poor choice of words.Maybe women haven't made it clear enough, but you never toss out words like "thin," "light," "tiny," or "petite" and then don't apply them to the lady in front of you.It's just rude.
Luckily, I had all those pigs in a blanket to console me when I got home.
Mine!
I have a pace for walking down the aisle that is near perfect, and I can remember the names of family members and their relation to the bride and groom with about 85% accuracy. With all of the experience I've been getting lately, I really am that good.
Anyway, this particular wedding was for my friend Sarah who I have known since kindergarten. And, since I do have a blog, I thought I should take this opportunity to address a rumor/possibly embellished story that has been bantered about since Saturday's big event: I might have gotten a bit too "enthusiastic" during the bouquet toss, but I would like the chance to explain further.
First of all, I was the tallest bridesmaid in the wedding. This was quite a shock to me. Other than my summer as a Mother's Day Out teacher for two-year-olds, I have never been the tallest person in the room. In fact, I'm normally the shortest person around. During class pictures in elementary school, I was usually off to the side in a little chair because I was the shortest person in the entire grade. And, today, even though I'm pretty average in height, I'm still on the short side.
I tell people that I'm 5'6", but the truth is that I'm barely 5'4". Fortunately, due to a carefully plotted history of lying and never being seen without heels on, most people, including my own family, have no idea how short I really am.
But getting back on task, the point is that I was the tallest bridesmaid, and since nothing like this has ever happened to me, I think I let it go to my head. Plus, it only got worse when I got my hair done, and the hairstylist added another inch and a half to my height with the volume on the crown of my head. I loved it, but there would have been nothing out of place about me performing the best loved hits of "Diana Ross and the Supremes" at the reception.
Well, unfortunately, during the bouquet toss, I was placed next to the shortest person at the wedding. Which means that I may or my not have used my height advantage to grab the bouquet out of her reach. And, there may or may not have been an incredibly awkward moment afterwards in which we both had our hands on the bouquet and wouldn't let go. And, there may or may not be photographic evidence of said event. (I will say this in my defense - eventually I conceded the bouquet.)
There are several factors, other than the height, that might have contributed to my mild wedding faux-pas.
1. I know how awkward it looks in pictures when no one goes for the bouquet, and it just hits the ground. I couldn't let this happen to one of my best friends. After all, humiliation lasts for a few moments, but wedding albums are forever.
2. Weddings make me feel a bit single. A bouquet might have given my hope. Sometimes we all need a little encouragement from the cosmos.
3. Open bar.
4. I had been wearing my super spanx/girdle since 2:30 that afternoon. I was spandexed from just above the knee to right below the boobs. This probably prevented a lot of blood flow to my brain. It's hard to think straight when half of your body is lycra-ed.
And, while all or some of these factors might play a role, I think the biggest truth lies in the fact that I just have quite a competitive edge. I was never good at sports as a child, but when board games or opportunities to excel are on the table, something happens.
At that moment, it wasn't about the bouquet, it was about beating other people. Just like I think you should have to provide the full, given name in Trivial Pursuit, I think you should accept the fact that if someone can grab the flowers out from above your head, you've lost.
What can I say? I come to play, and I play to win.