Some days I feel somewhat intelligent. You know, like I have my moments. Someone will be talking about something I know about, say dachshund breeders or OPI nail polish colors, and I can sound—and I don’t mean to brag here—but pretty much like a genius.
But then there are the other moments. The moments that seem to come all too frequently. The moments where I do something that makes my entire face turn bright red and makes me bury my face in my pillow groaning when I recall them in those seconds before sleep at night.
The other day, such a moment occurred. It wasn’t necessarily a red face/bury head in pillow moment because I was with a close friend who has known me long enough to not exactly anticipate genius at all times, but it wasn’t my proudest time.
We were out doing some Christmas shopping, walking through the mall and she was sharing a story with me about an event she’d attended where kids had been singing holiday music. It had been multicultural, with all of the holidays of the season being celebrated.
“… so yeah, they sang Christmas carols and secular carols—“
I snorted. “Secular carols? What’s that? Like ‘We don’t believe in God, fa la la…bells…good cheer….’” (Imagine an extremely out of tune singing voice rambling on here)
“No. Like Jingle Bells. And Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.”
Oh. Right.
The thing is, this wouldn’t be all that bad, except that this morning, for some reason, as I sat at a stoplight alone in my car on my drive to work, I remembered the moment. And I started to laugh, alone in my car. And then I looked in the car next to me where staring at me as if I’d totally lost my mind was a guy from my condo complex. I snapped my mouth shut, but it was too late. The damage had been done. I looked like a crazy person.
This is the problem with these moments. They compound themselves. And that’s probably how crazy people happen. If I’m correct about that, then I’m well on my way to insane.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Fairytale Ending
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. ~ Shakespeare
These two were able to look past age differences, height differences, breed differences and even fairly distinct smell differences to find true love. I can only hope we're all so lucky.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I've Got Mail
I have a bit of a problem with simply ignoring things I wish didn’t exist. This can come in rather handy in some parts of life. Dachshund barking obnoxiously for hours? I barely notice it. That hole in the elbow of my favorite shirt? Might as well not be there. The fact that Chick-fil-a sandwiches probably can’t be considered a healthy daily diet? Mere details not worth my consideration.
The problem is, I do this with other stuff too. Stuff like credit card bills, emails I should respond to and well, picking up my mail. I don’t know why I don’t like picking up my mail. I mean, multiple times a day I walk Rosie right past my mailbox, but for some reason, I don’t enjoy taking the time to open the box, take out the mail and then go through it upon my return to my condo. And so, rather than acting as a normal person and just sucking it up and doing it, I went for at least three weeks last month without getting my mail.
I didn’t even realize it had been so long until I went to my mailbox looking for something that was due to arrive. I’d left my digital camera in a coat pocket on my brother’s coat over Thanksgiving. He had then packed the coat when he flew back to Iowa (where he lives – yes, I know, crazy. People really live in Iowa). So, after some persuasion—apparently making the trip to the post office to return my much-missed camera wasn’t at the top of his priorities—he finally called me to let me know it was on it’s way. So I went to check the box. And was completely dismayed to find that there was nothing in it. Nothing. Not even one of those notes saying like “Hey, you idiot. You didn’t pick up your mail for three weeks. Now you should come to this place and we’ll give it to you.”
So, unsure of how to handle this situation, I decided to leave a note for my postman in the box. I returned to my condo and wrote in large capital letters on a pink post it “WHERE ARE YOU MAIL?” I then put the post-it in the box.
Two days later I’d had no response. I decided probably there was a more orthodox way to find out where my mail was than cryptic messages left in a box that likely wasn’t being checked. So I removed the note and called the US Postal Service. Not having any idea which local post office was my post office, I needed to at least find that out. Apparently though, there’s an entire system behind filing complaints with the post office.
Unfortunately, I had to make the call during work hours and so even as I tried to be quiet at my desk, there was much background laughter from my co-workers as I awkwardly tried to explain that yes, I simply hadn’t checked my mail for three weeks. No, I hadn’t been out of town. No, I wasn’t immobile. Yes, I know that I should check my mail daily. Finally, I was told that my complaint would be filed and I should here a response within 24 hours.
The next day, like a little miracle, my mail just started again. I was thrilled. However, there was a serious gap period left unaccounted for. A gap period that included my beloved camera. But then, the following day, I got a call from my local post office. There was a message on my phone after lunch saying I should call back Nataline at the post office.
When I called, I was actually very surprised at the efficiency that ensued. I was immediately directed to Nataline who then told me I needed to speak to Xavier, my carrier. Being that it was 2 in the afternoon, I thought (apparently incorrectly) that my carrier might be, oh say, delivering mail. However, after some scuffling noises eventually Xavier came to the phone.
“Girl, I thought you were dead.”
“Nope, still alive.”
“Well, are you going to start picking up your mail now?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
I couldn’t believe I was being scolded by my postman. This is why you should do things like picking up your mail. Eventually Xavier told me, much to my delight, that all of me mail including a box marked priority (my camera!) was at the post office and I just needed to come by and claim it. I was thrilled.
That evening, around ten o’clock, I headed to the mailbox for the day’s mail. I’d noticed since actually starting to collect it that it was delivered quite late. Now, knowing Xavier like I did, it was clear that he spent his daytime hours hanging around the post office and apparently preferred to do his delivering late night. As I walked around the corner, there he was, stuffing the mailboxes.
“Are you Xavier?” I asked.
“Are you Sarah Crosland?” he asked.
And so began what I can only hope blossoms into a warm relationship with my mailman. He’s good to have around if for no other reason than to assuage my fear that I will one day die alone and be eaten by Rosie before anyone notices I’m gone. I have a feeling now that Xavier might notice.
The problem is, I do this with other stuff too. Stuff like credit card bills, emails I should respond to and well, picking up my mail. I don’t know why I don’t like picking up my mail. I mean, multiple times a day I walk Rosie right past my mailbox, but for some reason, I don’t enjoy taking the time to open the box, take out the mail and then go through it upon my return to my condo. And so, rather than acting as a normal person and just sucking it up and doing it, I went for at least three weeks last month without getting my mail.
I didn’t even realize it had been so long until I went to my mailbox looking for something that was due to arrive. I’d left my digital camera in a coat pocket on my brother’s coat over Thanksgiving. He had then packed the coat when he flew back to Iowa (where he lives – yes, I know, crazy. People really live in Iowa). So, after some persuasion—apparently making the trip to the post office to return my much-missed camera wasn’t at the top of his priorities—he finally called me to let me know it was on it’s way. So I went to check the box. And was completely dismayed to find that there was nothing in it. Nothing. Not even one of those notes saying like “Hey, you idiot. You didn’t pick up your mail for three weeks. Now you should come to this place and we’ll give it to you.”
So, unsure of how to handle this situation, I decided to leave a note for my postman in the box. I returned to my condo and wrote in large capital letters on a pink post it “WHERE ARE YOU MAIL?” I then put the post-it in the box.
Two days later I’d had no response. I decided probably there was a more orthodox way to find out where my mail was than cryptic messages left in a box that likely wasn’t being checked. So I removed the note and called the US Postal Service. Not having any idea which local post office was my post office, I needed to at least find that out. Apparently though, there’s an entire system behind filing complaints with the post office.
Unfortunately, I had to make the call during work hours and so even as I tried to be quiet at my desk, there was much background laughter from my co-workers as I awkwardly tried to explain that yes, I simply hadn’t checked my mail for three weeks. No, I hadn’t been out of town. No, I wasn’t immobile. Yes, I know that I should check my mail daily. Finally, I was told that my complaint would be filed and I should here a response within 24 hours.
The next day, like a little miracle, my mail just started again. I was thrilled. However, there was a serious gap period left unaccounted for. A gap period that included my beloved camera. But then, the following day, I got a call from my local post office. There was a message on my phone after lunch saying I should call back Nataline at the post office.
When I called, I was actually very surprised at the efficiency that ensued. I was immediately directed to Nataline who then told me I needed to speak to Xavier, my carrier. Being that it was 2 in the afternoon, I thought (apparently incorrectly) that my carrier might be, oh say, delivering mail. However, after some scuffling noises eventually Xavier came to the phone.
“Girl, I thought you were dead.”
“Nope, still alive.”
“Well, are you going to start picking up your mail now?”
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
I couldn’t believe I was being scolded by my postman. This is why you should do things like picking up your mail. Eventually Xavier told me, much to my delight, that all of me mail including a box marked priority (my camera!) was at the post office and I just needed to come by and claim it. I was thrilled.
That evening, around ten o’clock, I headed to the mailbox for the day’s mail. I’d noticed since actually starting to collect it that it was delivered quite late. Now, knowing Xavier like I did, it was clear that he spent his daytime hours hanging around the post office and apparently preferred to do his delivering late night. As I walked around the corner, there he was, stuffing the mailboxes.
“Are you Xavier?” I asked.
“Are you Sarah Crosland?” he asked.
And so began what I can only hope blossoms into a warm relationship with my mailman. He’s good to have around if for no other reason than to assuage my fear that I will one day die alone and be eaten by Rosie before anyone notices I’m gone. I have a feeling now that Xavier might notice.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Waify
I hate dieting. Hate it. It is a miserable, terrible thing to do to oneself. Two months ago, just as the weather was cooling down, I noticed that my jeans, which I hadn’t put on in several months (a year and a half), were feeling a little snug (impossible to button). So I decided to diet.
I had been considering it for a while, but then a friend mentioned that she wanted to as well, so we decided to do it together. In fact, we spent an entire afternoon concocting the most ridiculous plan/points system ever created. It involved weigh ins, calorie counting and scheduled exercise. We called it “The Waif Diet” (don’t try to steal that ingenious name) because we wanted to look like waifs. Think Kate Moss, Oliver Twist and other hungry looking people. That plan lasted about six days.
The thing about trying to lose weight is that it is a full out effort from every side. You’re telling your body, who, until this moment, was perfectly happy with its current state of a nice and steady low heart rate, that it’s time for a change. And that change involves taking away cheese, fried chicken and pasta, and adding lettuce, apples and carrots. That’s just mean. Who takes away cheese?
There are two other side effects to losing weight that are tricky. One is the exercise. Now, I can get into exercising. It does take me a few days, but eventually I’m a bit of a sucker for endorphins and, despite some red face and heavy breathing issues, I enjoy a good run as much as the next person. However, since beginning this most recent regimen, I’ve realized something. I’m old.
It’s been a bit of a shock to discover. Somehow, during my first several weeks of running I managed to injure my right hip. Now, I walk around like an 80 year old, holding my hip and throwing my back out. Sometimes it literally hurts so badly I wake up in the night with it aching. That sounds like a prime nursing home candidate if I’ve ever heard of one. So I’ve slowed on the running because I think it might be awkward if I’m using a walker on my 26th birthday due to overzealous exercising.
The other tough side effect is cutting out drinking. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but I do love a sweet margarita from time to time. And a good gin and tonic. And a nice glass of wine. But those are calories that could be much better spent on cheese. So it’s kind of tricky on a Saturday night when your hip is aching and you’re starving and you’re just watching your friends sip away while you suck down a diet coke like there’s no tomorrow.
That’s why I hate diets. And that’s probably why after I hit the point that the jeans would button again, I hit a plateau in the weight loss. That, and a little holiday I like to call Thanksgiving—which could just as easily be called “Day destined to wreak havoc on the self control of any normal person.” I’m a little surprised the Pilgrims and Indians (am I supposed to say Native Americans here?) didn’t just call it that.
Tomorrow I’m going back on the treadmill again after my weeklong preemptive nursing home avoidance break from running. I’m dreading the red face, heavy breathing and general threat of a heart attack I know will result. But that’s the thing I hate most about diets, you do them long enough and suddenly you’ve convinced your body it’s not supposed to be happy with pasta and a low heart rate. And that’s just crazy talk. What’s next? Convincing yourself that cheese really isn’t the most delicious thing ever created? Crazy.
I had been considering it for a while, but then a friend mentioned that she wanted to as well, so we decided to do it together. In fact, we spent an entire afternoon concocting the most ridiculous plan/points system ever created. It involved weigh ins, calorie counting and scheduled exercise. We called it “The Waif Diet” (don’t try to steal that ingenious name) because we wanted to look like waifs. Think Kate Moss, Oliver Twist and other hungry looking people. That plan lasted about six days.
The thing about trying to lose weight is that it is a full out effort from every side. You’re telling your body, who, until this moment, was perfectly happy with its current state of a nice and steady low heart rate, that it’s time for a change. And that change involves taking away cheese, fried chicken and pasta, and adding lettuce, apples and carrots. That’s just mean. Who takes away cheese?
There are two other side effects to losing weight that are tricky. One is the exercise. Now, I can get into exercising. It does take me a few days, but eventually I’m a bit of a sucker for endorphins and, despite some red face and heavy breathing issues, I enjoy a good run as much as the next person. However, since beginning this most recent regimen, I’ve realized something. I’m old.
It’s been a bit of a shock to discover. Somehow, during my first several weeks of running I managed to injure my right hip. Now, I walk around like an 80 year old, holding my hip and throwing my back out. Sometimes it literally hurts so badly I wake up in the night with it aching. That sounds like a prime nursing home candidate if I’ve ever heard of one. So I’ve slowed on the running because I think it might be awkward if I’m using a walker on my 26th birthday due to overzealous exercising.
The other tough side effect is cutting out drinking. Now, I’m not a big drinker, but I do love a sweet margarita from time to time. And a good gin and tonic. And a nice glass of wine. But those are calories that could be much better spent on cheese. So it’s kind of tricky on a Saturday night when your hip is aching and you’re starving and you’re just watching your friends sip away while you suck down a diet coke like there’s no tomorrow.
That’s why I hate diets. And that’s probably why after I hit the point that the jeans would button again, I hit a plateau in the weight loss. That, and a little holiday I like to call Thanksgiving—which could just as easily be called “Day destined to wreak havoc on the self control of any normal person.” I’m a little surprised the Pilgrims and Indians (am I supposed to say Native Americans here?) didn’t just call it that.
Tomorrow I’m going back on the treadmill again after my weeklong preemptive nursing home avoidance break from running. I’m dreading the red face, heavy breathing and general threat of a heart attack I know will result. But that’s the thing I hate most about diets, you do them long enough and suddenly you’ve convinced your body it’s not supposed to be happy with pasta and a low heart rate. And that’s just crazy talk. What’s next? Convincing yourself that cheese really isn’t the most delicious thing ever created? Crazy.
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