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Visits to the Lady Doctor: A Voluntary Violation

2 Nov

So I had my annual gyno appointment Monday.  It was a hoot.  It always is.

If you’re a dude, don’t stop reading just because I said “gyno”.  Don’t worry; it’s going to be okay.  I’ll ease you into it.

I don’t like going to the doctor.  I know that probably very few people do.  I’ve never really met anyone excited about it.  But I like to think that somewhere out there in the world are people who really enjoy the feedback and want all sorts of probing questions asked of them and to be poked and prodded and looked at with one eyebrow up and a look of distaste for their physical form.

But I’m sure even those folks don’t enjoy vagina doctors.

Listen, I’m just calling them what they are.

I always have to answer all these questions about myself on a little form before I can be seen.  They’re the same questions I answer any time I go to a doctor of any sort: smoking, drinking, sexual activity, blah blah blah.  But this year I found a new one: “Do you wear your seatbelt?”

This seems strange to me on many levels.  Mostly on the level that I’m not entirely sure how whether I wear my seat belt directly impacts the health of my Twinkie-lee.  Obviously if I’m in a car accident there are many physical concerns, but to be honest the safety of my Sugar Basin was never one of them.

Usually when you tell the truth on those questionnaires, you have to have a firm talking to from the doc when they see you.  Luckily, I wear my seat belt, so I didn’t have to have an in-depth discussion about the impact of wearing one for the sake of my Lady Jane.  Though I must admit, I was tempted to just for a good time.

Instead I got to have a lively conversation about a separate question for which I chose to tell the truth: “Do you exercise regularly?”

It’s the term ‘regularly’ that I really can’t get around.  So I checked ‘no’.  And seeing that my weight has increased each year in parallel to my age, my doc decided it was time to have a chat.  I explained that even though her chart says I gained weight from last year, what she doesn’t know is that I actually gained a lot of weight since last year and over the past few months have lost it.

She was unimpressed.  Rightly so.  After all, I’m a little more Jabba the Hutt-y than I would prefer.

I think the real kicker was when she asked what I was doing and I emphasized that I’m eating better and walking a lot (thanks again, no car).  Her response was “Walking is what I tell my 80-year-old patients to do.  Kick it up a notch, k?”

She really is very charming.

So after I felt all fat and disgusting, she violated me, as vagina doctors are paid to do.  There’s something so cold and calculated about it. I appreciate her holding casual conversation with me as she geared up to probe my Cave of Harmony, but I can only be so chummy when you flash a cartoon-sized economy tube of “EZ GLIDE” jelly and squeeze it into your hand as we converse.  Under any other circumstances, I would run away screaming and fumble for my phone to dial 9-1-1.  So the fact that I’m paying her to do it to me makes me feel like there is a deep, deep injustice taking place here.  Or perhaps something prostitutional.

I like that new word I just made there.  “Prostitutional”.  It sounds patriotic.

At any rate, there needs to be some word for it, because “annual check-up” doesn’t really capture the magic of the moment.  

I’d like to think that I’m on the path toward healthy living.  Actually, I know I am because I’ve been consistently losing weight and eating better for a few months now.  I think that when I’m all svelte and wonderful and people ask what my secret is, I’ll tell them my vagina doctor yelled at me.  I’ll tell them I did it for the sake of my Ace of Spades and nothing else.  They’ll be surprised to hear that weight gain was such a concern for the Wonder Down Under and I’d like to see the reactions.

Especially when I tell them that’s why I’m always sure to wear a seat belt too. ♣

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I Finally Learned How to Use the Bus

1 Nov

It's so big and scary.

Oh man, only 10 Lollipop Tuesdays left.  Whatever shall you do with your Tuesdays in 2012?

Cry, that’s what.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

In light of the Great Car Totalage of 2011 (also known as The Day of Sorrow), I decided it would be a good time to hone my bus skills.  And when I say ‘hone my bus skills’, I actually mean ‘learn how to use the bus’.  I’ve been doing the whole car/walk/bike thing for every one of my almost 6 years in the city because the idea of mass transit paralyzed me with fear.

There have been two exceptions: when I was with a large group of friends (monkey see, monkey do), and when the Burning Crusade Expansion for World of Warcraft was released.  I had to take a train out of the city to get to a WalMart, where I stood in line for the midnight sale because I was a sad, sad slave to the massive multiplayer online fantasy game

There’s no judging on The Jackie Blog, so stop it.

Anyway, I’m carless and it’s cold.  And while I still walked for miles out of fear of the bus system, it’s gotten a lot easier to try new things under the umbrella of a Lollipop Tuesday Adventure.  I’m happy to report that I’ve competently used the bus without a single familiar face to ride with me for an entire week. 

But since I’m sure lots of you live in the city and think that’s pretty lame (and you obviously don’t follow the ‘no judging on The Jackie Blog rule), I thought I should go a step further and experience the Megabus as well.

For those of you who aren’t aching for a cheap way to get from Point A to Point B on a regular basis, allow me to enlighten you to the ways of the Megabus.  You may have seen them rolling around the U.S. or even Europe.  They’re bright blue double decker buses with an enormous picture of a portly, cherry-cheeked guy in a bright yellow uniform touting seats for just one dollar* (*plus .50 registration fee).  It’s somewhat true that you can get a seat for one dollar.  It’s more true that the first 5 people to book a seat on a bus get it for one dollar and that the price goes up from there.  To get a seat for just one single George Washington, you have to book pretty far in advance.  It might be best to go by the “eh, I might go to NYC 5 months from now.  I’ll book it just in case” method. 

All the one dollar nonsense aside, it’s still a cost-effective mode of transportation.  For some routes, it’s half the price of a train and still well below the price of a Greyhound.  In most cases it’s also faster.  And the only thing you sacrifice is your personal bubble, any sense of comfort , and the ability to drink, eat, or pee comfortably for the duration of your trip.

They seem to have a pretty lax tracking system wherein you only need to get in line and have your reservation number handy.  They don’t ask your name, they don’t ask for ID, they don’t check bags, they don’t do anything that you would expect a transportation service to do.  You just give them a number and you board.

Sometimes you’re boarding in the middle of a much larger trip.  For example, there is a stop in State College between Pittsburgh and New York.  If you’re boarding at the midpoint (State College), you have to get bold because when you board, every New York passenger will have a pile of junk on the available seat, a pair of headphones in, and look mean as possible so you don’t choose to sit by them.  And you can either wander around to look for the folks who will willingly give up their seat with a little eye contact pressure, or you can just march right up to the folks who splay out all their belongings in their area and ask them to please move.  

Personally, I find the latter much more amusing and gratifying overall.

On the return trip, I was blessed by the Megabus gods, who made it appear as if the company had overbooked and sent a second independent charter bus to pick up the excess customers.  But thanks to a bundle of no-shows, the extra bus wasn’t necessary.  Having already been set on a course to Pittsburgh, however, the driver was willingly accepting passengers.  So I stepped on the bus expecting it to be fully crowded with cranky, tired New York folks and instead found myself on board with only 3 other humans in site.  I had 1/4 of the bus to myself and it was glorious.  

It reminded me of  another Lollipop Tuesday when I found myself in an entirely empty movie theater.

Sometimes you get a little unexpected reward for mustering up the mojo to try something new. ♣

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How to Be a Good Houseguest

31 Oct

Well, we’re staring down the barrel of November, folks. That means that in what will seem to only be a few short days, we will fly through the holidays season with every moment full of angst, hurriedness, and guilt. I’m so looking forward to it, arent you? So allow me to address a holiday matter before the holidays are truly upon us: How to be a good houseguest.

Being a good houseguest is a crucial skill. Not only do you want to ensure you have a place to stay when you’re away from home so you don’t spend your holidays in a hotel, but you would also like to not completely ruin your relationship with the host. And having had a plethora of folks shack up at my place, I am deeming myself an authority on the matter. Heed my words, oh wonderful and knowledge-seeking followers.

How to Be a Good Houseguest

1) Leave it how you found it.  Doesn’t that seem simple? But that means everything. It means making the bed to the best of your ability before you leave. It means cleaning up after yourself when you put your feet up and have a snack somewhere in the house. It means that if you use their towels or washcloths or anything else they offered you that you give them back at the end of the run and even offer to throw them in the washing machine.

2)  Be gracious for everything.  If they make you food or offer you a drink or got a different kind of bath soap because they know you are allergic to theirs or whatever they may do to make you feel at home, be gracious. That includes eating whatever they are kind enough to make and saying thank you for it.  Hey, if you dont like it you can sneak out on the town and eat something else. Or pack granola bars for such an emergency.

3) Offer to help.  With anything –  dinner, cleaning, whatever.  If there are dishes to be done and some of them have been dirtied by you, help.  Insist on it. Because no matter what the host says, they’re completely and utterly thankful for the helping hand. After all, they’d rather be spending time with everyone than spending all their time cleaning up after them.

4) Maintain. Sure, you were given a guest room for the duration of your stay, but that room is still part of a house that is not yours. So while you should feel free to make yourself at home you should not feel free to live like a complete slob in that room until your departure.

5) Enjoy yourself.  I know all this seems like a lot of fuss and trouble but it’s really not.  Essentially just offer to help here and there and clean up after yourself. Easy peasy.  Remember: above all the host just wants you to enjoy yourself. So kick back, relax, make yourself feel at home (so long as your home is not a nest of digustingness) and enjoy the stay.
And a sidenote for good measure: If you can’t commit to doing any of the above, you should stay at a hotel.  Because there, people are paid to clean up after you, you don’t have to be grateful for it, and regardless of how you live in the room they provide you, you are always welcome to come back again.

Happy holiday season folks. May all our relationships stay in tact. ♣

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Hallowhores

30 Oct

I think that instead of participating in Halloween this year, I’ll donate my time to community service and hand out cardigans on busy street corners.

I’ll focus strongly on college campuses and high traffic party areas.

Now, I’m wary to write a post dedicated to Hallowhores because it really is a very popular rant topic as of late.  Apparently this year’s cold front (the east coast has pumpkins on their front steps covered with snow) has highlighted the tenacity of the Hallowhores. I always thought folks were just turning a blind eye to the fact that Halloween is now an excuse for girls to dress up like the slutty sluts they always wished they could be.  But I guess now they’re concerned they may get the flu.

Or steal their boyfriends and husbands.

Dave came in the door from his show last night and had a look of slight terror on his face. He had just gotten off the bus, where a girl in a Sailor Moon costume boarded. (*cue music* Fighting evil by moonlight/Winning love by daylight…)

In her infinite wisdom, she had decided to go commando in her tiny little Sailor skirt.

For those of you unfamiliar with exactly how dangerous that can be, here is a picture of the offenders costume of choice.

I've decided to use an art doll image because all over examples were borderline pornographic. Yes, even the actual cartoon. It is, after all, anime.

Not much room for a breeze there.

Dave said every guy on the bus didn’t take their eyes off her. And when she tripped on the way out, the women joined.

I asked Dave if he got a shot of the front or the back.  Luckily (relatively speaking) it was the back. 

There is an obvious Sailor Moon joke here.  Just know that and be grateful that I spared you.

Now, call me a grumpy old conservative coot, but I find sporting an outfit with such a short skirt to a party at which she was almost indubitably going to get wasted a poor, poor choice.  And since she can’t even walk well in all that beautiful sluttery, I would argue against the choice all the more.  But alas, it’s a free country and we must let women wear very little and flash entire buses full of people every year on Halloween.  After all, it’s a holiday.

You know, on second thought perhaps I should revise my community service calling.

Cardigans and underwear. Yes.  It’s obvious now that only one will not do.

I’ll go get boxes and labels right now. ♣

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Hair Salon Pressure: The Final Chapter

29 Oct

My hair is back to normal.

For those of you who don’t care, I completely understand.  For those of you who want to care but don’t know what I’m talking about, read this or maybe even this to catch up.  For everyone else, carry on.

So yes, my hair is back to normal. Well, as normal as normal can be after having chemicals and goop and heat thrown at it.  All things considered, I’d love to go back to the moment when I thought “hey, it would be nice to change things up a bit” and save my money and my time.  But that stupid moment is forever etched in history, along with all the other moronic things I’ve done this year and will continue to do until I rot in my grave with a wealth of knowledge that would have been best applied when I was ten and older, not dead in the ground.  And with the money I spent on my hair, I could have bought fifteen things that are much more important.  I’ll cry that out a little later on.  Now is not the time.

The good news is that out of all of this I may have found an actual competent hairdresser in my area that’s enjoyable, fast, and does

The blossoming of a potentially awesome future hairdresser.

good work.   But she’s also a manager and was tasked with fixing my atrocity of a head and trying to squeeze any more money out of me with product sales if possible.  She kind of succeeded, because I am weak.

Like a little lamb.

Maybe I’ll just take a note and in the future just go to the most crazy-haired, tattooed girl in the salon.  I’ve read so many articles that tell you to go to the person whose hair you like or who seems to have a style close to yours, etc. etc.  

That’s a bunch of malarkey. 

Just go to the nuttiest nut job you can find.  Find someone who expresses themselves almost entirely through body alterations.  Those are the people who are passionate about self-expression and will help you find a way to do the same.  Hot pink hair is a plus.  So is a nose ring.

So anyway, lesson learned.  But this year is all about not holding back out of fear, so I’m also kind of pleased with myself for getting a dye job when I was pretty darn comfortable staying where I was.  And I even had the cojones to call and go back.  That’s pretty cool.

My ‘redo’ stylist rinsed me out right beside the stylist who made the mess the first time around.  That was a tiny dab of awkward sauce.  I forgot to mention that.  She knew what she did.  I wish I could have taken her tip money back.  All of it.  But then, why was I polite enough to tip when I absolutely hated what she did?

Because I’m an idiot.  Lessons learned, my friends. Lessons learned. ♣

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I Have Met the Grumplepuss

28 Oct

Yesterday whilst on my way home away after work, I encountered the Grumplepuss.

I have used this term freely to describe persons with unnecessarily negative attitudes.  I had no image for the term, nor did I think to create one.  But yesterday in a Ma & Pa record store, I looked to the front counter to find the folks in charge and was instead greeted by this at the register:

The Grumplepuss

This, ladies and gentlemen, is obviously a Grumplepuss.  Though, her terrible attitude is not her fault entirely.  As Dave chatted away with the owner, Grumps loved up on me a like a soldier home from war.  After I gave her a few pats at the front counter, she jumped down to follow me around the store until I was finally convinced to sit down and give her some sweet cat lady lovin’. 

Even when content, a Grumplepuss can only look so pleased.

It was during this love fest that I noticed her terrible breath, her unkempt coat, and the gunk that had gathered around her eyes and lingered there for what looked like months.

Poor Grumplepuss has some negligent owners.

I thought about taking her home for a weekend to give her a good cleaning and return her afterward.  I also thought about sending a gift certificate to the business for a free grooming for her.  I’m sure there are lots of great ways that I can frame the conversation, but it still wouldn’t detract from the fact that I’m saying “Hey.  You obviously don’t take care of your cat.  Here’s money.  You have no excuse.”

Eventually the Grumplepuss curled into a half-moon, so that she no longer even looked like a cat, but rather an indiscernible, furry animal from the wild.

Unfortunately, she found it difficult to get comfortable and kept meowing a pathetic little meow, which made me think that perhaps more was plaguing her than met the eye.  Maybe I should send a vet gift certificate too.  Can I even do that?

One of several Grumplepuss attempts to get comfortable.

She eventually resolved to lie on my bag, though at first she was fighting with me to crawl inside it.  Maybe she was asking me to please take her away from the record store.  Maybe she was crying for help and was surprised someone actually pet her instead of saying she was a frumpy, dirty cat.

Or maybe I’ve taken the next step in my Crazy Cat Woman journey, where I am convinced I need to rescue even the cats that are already with an owner in a warm place.  Sooner or later, I’ll think they’re all trying to talk to me.  Some will be telling me to rescue them, others that my apartment is burning down, still others that tell me to collect more cats.

Maybe I should stick to the gift card approach. ♣

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Hair Salon Pressure Part Deux: The Aftermath

27 Oct

I know you’re just dying to know, so here: I ruined my hair.

Remember this from yesterday in regard to taking the plunge? “Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing?  Yes, yes it is.” (Jackie Baker, October 26, 2011: pre-ruined hair)

Or perhaps this charming picture of what I thought I could expect from such a venture –>

Well I guess you could say it all pretty much came out as feared.  Except I don’t look like a dog.  Not my face, anyway. …I don’t think.

My appointment last night was at 7:30.  At 6:30 I got a call asking if I could come in earlier, so I aimed for 7pm and made it there by 6:45 because I’m awesome. After I sat there for only 5 minutes, the manager came over and explained that my stylist was running behind.  Why did you call me and ask me to come earlier if she’s running behind?, I asked.  Someone called you and asked you to do that?, He said.

This is never a good sign.

He proceeded to explain that I could have another stylist work with me.  She’s a more “senior consultant” he said, but he would charge me the same price.  I told him the whole reason I was there was because the night before, the other girl cut my hair and we talked about color. I came back specifically at a time she was available so I was wary to go with someone else.  He told me he’d supervise my coloring himself.

Getting the manager to supervise with a “more senior consultant” seemed like a fair shake so I thought what the heck, why not. (Note: Wrong.  Totally wrong.)

When it comes to hair advice, the more is not the merrier.  Five minutes later I was seated in the chair with four different stylists huddled around me, talking about how beautiful my natural color was.  One even said, you’re not getting that colored are you?! The correct answer should have been No.  No I’m not, followed by walking out the door.

I told them I used to be more of a redhead and over the years, I’ve kind of morphed into a dishwatery blonde that I don’t prefer.  I wanted a few highlights to bring out the red in my hair, I wanted it to look natural, and I wanted it to be subtle.  They all agreed – I made a great redhead, and I should return to it.

I could reenact in my sleep what happens to stylists when they look at the back of my head and see the huge blonde chunk that runs down it. It’s the same thing every time.  First, they assume it’s a weird dye job by me.  Then they check the roots and see that there aren’t any.  Then they ask me what’s up with it and I explain I was born with it.  I get too detailed sometimes and explain that it’s a matter of genetic co-dominance, much like when you see a horse with spots.

Then they geek out.

Which I really appreciate.  It’s nice.  It’s something interesting about me and I appreciate them making me feel special.  But last night, this discovery led to an all-around consensus that I should highlight blonde like this chunk.  I told the cluster of people around me that I really prefer red and that the blonde would have to be very subtle and only around my face.

2.5 hours later, everyone who chimed in was gone and I was left in the chair with my stylist at closing as she roughed through my hair with her fingers, trying to blow dry it as fast as possible so she could leave.  As my hair dried and came to light, it was obvious that they decided to go with their plan and not mine.  And since she started at the left side of my head and worked around to the right, there was a huge, platinum blonde streak running right down the side of my face, which leads a gradual and noticeable fade all the way around my head.  It was a stripey, skunky strangeness from which I could not recover for another 6 weeks.

I was devastated.

I told her I expected it to be more red and that there was a looooot of blonde.  I told her I felt more like a blonde than a redhead.  I told her I was having trouble adjusting to the shock of the blonde.  I told her lots of things, when I really should have just told her I wanted to cry.  It looked a lot like skunk stripes.  Little baby skunk stripes.  And when the manager was speaking with me, he confirmed three different times that I wanted to be red, I wanted it to be natural, and I didn’t want stripes.

I’m not sure what he did with that information.  I think he communicated it to my stylist via paper cup and string.

I ponied up too many of my hard-earned American dollars, and walked out of the salon with an ample amount of wetness to my eyes.  I had just wasted a lot of money to feel worse about myself.  I loved my hair the day before.  I had a new cut with a little bit of movement and a subtle change.  And even my awesome blow out from that evening was ruined by last evening’s half-inspired styling.

Supposedly, I have two weeks in which to request an adjustment for free.  

This bus shelter advertisement mocked me on my way home.  I’ll be calling today. ♣

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There’s Nothing Like Hair Salon Pressure

26 Oct

Me, tomorrow morning.

Going to the hairdresser is such an excruciating experience for someone who doesn’t spend time on their hair.

Not the shampoo part.  Or the head massage part.   Or the combing, cutting, or texturizing.  All of that’s quite lovely.  Actually, I told the woman who last massaged my head that I would marry her.

Don’t judge me – she made me drunk on the tickly goodness.

The part that’s awful isn’t the actual hair getting done.  It’s the interview process that’s difficult to endure.  Or rather, still feel feminine after.  First of all, it’s obvious to any passerby that I don’t do my hair. I clearly have no skills.  Zero.  I wake up, I wash my hair, I comb it, and I go to work.

Sometimes I put it back in a ponytail.

These are obvious signs of a malnourished beauty skill set and yet they ask the questions.  With their perfect hair and their nicely shaped brows and their awesome makeup.  They stand there and they ask me all these questions as if they don’t already know the answers.  She, rather.  It’s always a she.  Men don’t ask me questions when they do my hair; they just make me look fabulous in silence. So last night, she (let’s call her Meg.  Meg is cute enough name to be a hottie but also cool enough to be better than you at things) interrogated me before she would even touch my hair. Do I put anything in my hair when I style it, do I do anything in the morning to it before I go out, do I blah blah blah. I finally just stopped trying to skirt the issue and said “look, I really don’t do anything.  Like, anything.  I wake up and I wash it”.

I could see the concern grow in her face as she asked the final, telling question: “So you just towel dry it and go?”

I don’t know why she had to make me admit it like that.  Yes, I just towel dry it and go.  And usually put it back in a ponytail within an hour.  I just take all my shame and throw it behind my eyes so I don’t have to have any self-realizations.  Like that I look like an exhausted, 40-year-old housewife.

Maybe 35.  Still.  It’s not pretty.

I almost felt a bit more feminine when she told me I had fantastic hair, great texture, and that it was incredibly healthy.  I like to think it’s because of the lack of gunk and blow drying and teasing, but hey: that’s just me.  So she proceeded to gunk and blow dry it, and golly do I look a lot better.

Really, I do.  I’m getting it colored today.  She’s a very convincing woman.

I told Dave he’s in for a treat.  I’ve been eating better for a long time now, kicked up my exercise this week (thanks, no car!), got my hair done yesterday, and am getting it done again tonight.  I will finish out the week about one hundred times hotter than I was when I started it.

I’m not sure if I’ve been brainwashed or if I just had a realization that I shouldn’t look sad and weary when I’m in my mid-20’s.  I think it has a lot to do with the latter, but that’s what someone with the former reality might think.  So you know, it’s hard to tell.

I’m having day-mares of a striped, hellacious colorfest that ruins the first haircut I’ve enjoyed in a long time.  Is it possible that tonight I will ruin a perfectly good thing? 

Yes, yes it is.  Here’s to female brainwashing.  And hair color. ♣

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Be a Fear Gobbler

25 Oct

Hey, Lollipop Tuesday has gotten harder with the removal of a car from the equation.  How was I supposed to make it to Scottish Line Dancing across town last night without a car to take me there?  I wasn’t.  So instead I decided to poke around a place I didn’t really belong.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday, ya’ll.

If you don’t think there’s anything special about Tuesdays, you should probably check out “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?” listed on this very same page at the tippy tippy top before reading on.  I don’t want you to have to keep living with that fallacy.

Have you ever wanted to just go in somewhere and pretend you belong there just to see if you could go unnoticed?  Or wanted to check out the inside of a building that seemed like it could be cool inside even though you didn’t really have a reason or a right to be there?  I think about those sorts of things a lot.  You can get away with a lot by just acting like you belong wherever you are.  Most people mind their own business and even the ones who don’t probably don’t have the courage to ask you why you’re out of your place.

 

Adventure.

That’s how Frank Abagnale Jr. did it, you know. 

Well he also had a significantly heavy skill set that was developed over time including check forgery, escape artistry, and general imposter.  But I don’t have any of those things so I had to just go with the ‘wander and look like you belong’ mantra. 

On the way to work today, as I was freaking out about spending last week getting a Lollipop Tuesday schedule together and then getting it knocked out of whack by the whole car-is-totaled-thing this weekend, Dave and I were walking and chatting about some of the buildings he’s been in.  I recalled a few weeks before that I was admiring a building downtown I never noticed the top of and he asked me if I’d ever been inside.   He had, he said, for a film shoot (big shot that he is) and it was truly beautiful.  He grabbed me and darted inside, where I saw a beautiful courtyard that was wasted behind closed doors.

As we drove past a beautiful building I see every day on the way to and from work, he asked me if I’d ever been inside it. Again, the answer was no and I asked how it was he ended up all these places.  After all, the building I was looking at had classes going on inside and wasn’t exactly public property from what I could tell.  

But I wasn’t going to be Scottish Line Dancing any time soon so on my way back home from work, I took a detour into the building and did my best impersonation of Frank Abagnale Jr. I just tried to blend in and not look nervous. 

Isn’t it stupid that someone can be so fearful of something so simple?  The worst thing that could happen was I’d get asked to leave.  What’s the big deal in that?   But when I look back only a few short months ago and I was paralyzed with fear at the idea of going in to a new restaurant alone, I’m glad for the awkward growing pains. 

As it turns out, the place is really lovely.  And it’s not that big of a deal at all to walk around a place you might not belong.  It was actually an art hall with  a little courtyard inside (what’s with these indoor courtyards?) and huge paintings.  I even poked through the hallways and stumbled upon a really lovely little auditorium all lit up without a soul in it. 

I made sure to take a picture so you wouldn't think I'm lying. Why do you always think I'm lying??

 

I considered a few uses for the stage; I always geek out when I find a new theater space. 

It was actually a really wonderful little time.  I don’t know when I lost my sense of adventure.  I should rephrase.  I don’t know when I let my fear trump my sense of adventure.  I think that when one succumbs to their fear, they settle.  I constantly deprive myself of new, sometimes mind-altering and almost always enjoyable experiences out of nothing but fear.  I don’t know what it will be like, what I’m supposed to do when confronted, what to say, how to blend in – all of these things are really not that complicated.  And yet somehow I let them get in the way.  That’s really what this whole year-long Lollipop Tuesday series has been about.

And I know I’ve said this before, because I really do so badly want you to try something new: but do something new this week. Anything.  Is there somewhere you’ve always wanted to wander into? Or a walk you wanted to take or a part of town you wanted to explore or a class, a person, an anything-whatsoever that you’ve wanted to do or engage and you haven’t?  It doesn’t have to be huge.  It can be small.  But make it something.  Then come tell me about it.

Gobble up your fear one little experience at a time. ♣

The Great Macaroni and Cheese Adventure Update: I’m cooking and baking and boiling away – I’ve got about half the recipes under my belt.  Last night I even had a few taste testers to help me score.  Soon, someone shall be named the winner of a $25 Visa Gift Card and I shall be the proud owner of the World’s Best Macaroni and Cheese recipe.  Stay tuned for the epicness. 

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The Pig Plan

24 Oct

I think I should shake things up and get a pig.

You know, just a little cute one.  Some kind of stunted-growth pig.  An around-the-house pig.   A pig for all occasions.

There are a few features about a pig that I think we could benefit from.  For example, security.  My cats do nothing for the security of my apartment.  While a pig doesn’t offer much in the way of badass mofo-ness, it will certainly confuse an intruder.  Perhaps it will make him consider what other kinds of freaky animals I’m hoarding in the house.  Or maybe he’ll just find it so darn adorable that he will be unable to take anything from the pig’s home out of guilt.

My pig will also eat scraps from the table, thereby reducing our garbage total each week.

I could also teach it all sorts of tricks.   I would try to invest in teaching it things that are a blend of around-the-house tricks and great party tricks.  I was at a get-together this past weekend in which one couple brought their dog.   I brought cake and pie, and they brought a dog, which was basically our entertainment for the evening.  So on that note, my pig is a money-saver if I bring it along to house parties.  Apparently we can just bring animals into other peoples’ homes if they’re cute enough.  I reckon a pig is cute enough to get me out of baking, shopping, and entertainment-hunting.

Granted, in light of my recent transportation situation, perhaps a pig purchase is not the most responsible thing I can do at this point in my life.  But if I consider the long term savings (garbage reduction, party animal, cost-effective apartment security), and I do my best to find a free one, I think I can make it happen.

I don’t know how it will get along with the cats, but they could use a good bit of sprinting around the house anyway.  Look at that! A cheap workout routine for the felines as well.  

All things considered, this is a solid, responsible, adult decision.  Perhaps I shall go pig hunting after work. ♣

I would bathe him. Frequently.

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