Tag Archives: life

The Nude Hour

23 Mar

I’m alone in the office this week.

Part of the beauty of being an executive assistant is that executives tend to go on quite a few trips.   And after you’re done pulling your hair out trying to pad their itinerary with so much detail that someone could conk them out and easily steal their life for 3 days, you get to sit back and relish the silence of their absence.

And so there I was yesterday – relishing – when it occurred to me that I really am all alone.  With everyone attached to the conference in my boss’s office out of the picture, there’s just me and a few folks downstairs in the whole department.   And as soon as they decide to go to a meeting or run to lunch, I’m officially the only representing member of our department’s stake in the corporate jungle.

So what, exactly, is stopping me from being nude?

Seriously.

There was only one person outside our department who visited me yesterday and it was to drop off the mail. Since nothing posts to our mail stop until 1:30pm, it’s safe to say that I can expect to be alone until at least that time.   Which means that from 9:00am-1:30pm, I have 4 distinct opportunities to begin what I will dub “the nude hour”.

I thought about just dropping the drawers.  I sit behind a desk all day anyway – a pretty  massive one.  And quite frankly if I pull my office chair in close enough, there’s little chance that anyone would even know I’m sitting there airing out my private lady bits.

I got quite a few phone calls yesterday, but there’s nothing to fear there.  As long as I don’t sound too excitable, there will be no reason for the caller to wonder what’s going on.    And since I already make the majority of my phone calls while I’m on the toilet, I think I’ll ace that test.

So that’s that.  I’ve no reason to go one more day on this earth without being able to say that I’ve been nude in the office. It’s there for the taking.

My path has been made clear before me. ♣

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Please Hold My Butt

22 Mar

Ladies and Gentlemen, Happy Lollipop Tuesday.

Now I know some of ya’ll are new to this corner of the magical Interwebz, so feel free to access that link at the top right hand corner of this page explaining what all this silliness is about.

The last time I was Freshly Pressed, I felt a whole lot of pressure on the following Tuesday and braved an experience I’d thought about for years but never gotten the cojones to try: Ice Skating.  It was a glorious adventure in sucking at something.

This time was no exception, and at about 8:00 last night, I wandered over to try my hand at Rock Climbing/Bouldering- a reader suggestion that I really didn’t think I could pull off.  And hey – you know what I learned? Rock Climbing is freaking hard.

When I showed up, I immediately had to sign the ceremonial waiver of death, injury, and general responsibility for bodily harm.  In fact, the company was so intent on making sure their customers knew exactly how dangerous it was that they make them write out entire sentences instead of just signing.   Before being allowed to launch my pudding-filled bottom up a series of tiny wedges on an inclined wall, I had to first write out “Everything is my fault.  Even death.  Farewell cruel rock-climbing world”.

Well that was the  general idea anyway.

Death waiver signed, I eagerly entered the climbing gymnasium and into a world of secret rock climbing codes.  There were all sorts of arrows, colored tapes, and strange scribblings across an entire jungle gym of ridiculously small man-made wedges.

Apparently it isn’t enough to just  be willing to climb on these tiny amoeba-shaped pegs.   You have to be willing to commit yourself to only climbing only the ones that are in the same color code.  So if I’m at the bottom of a ginormous wall with no helmet (don’t worry – I wrote out “I know I’ll die if I don’t wear a helmet” ) and I’m looking up, I can’t just use any old hand hold to climb to God.  I have to only use the hand holds that correspond to the color I’m working through.

My color was red – the color of noob shame.

I don’t know about you, but when my lard butt is halfway up a steep precipice with no apparently safe escape, I don’t really care about whether the peg that I need to step on to not fall and crack my head open is the correct color. But I played along with the rules anyway because the Lollipop Tuesday gig doesn’t count unless I do things the way silly humans have decided they are to be done.

My high point was making it to the top of the red line on one section of the gymnasium.  My low point was directly after, when I backed down as far as I could without having a panic attack and asked Dave to hold my butt so that I could get down.

Oh yeah – Dave was there.  And make no mistake – he’s a beast.   I was piddling around with beginner level color codes and he was over on the advanced ones, doing full body extensions, leaping from rock to rock, hitting the top mark, and jumping down in style.

I swear I saw him hang from the ceiling once.

I, however, wilted quickly.  My Jell-O arms were no match for that gymnasium’s wrath.  There were incredibly adept people on every side – women with guns the size of my face and thighs that crack a man’s skull in two.  They were grunting and groaning and leaping to the tops of their color chains as I braced myself against the wall and prayed that my shaking (lack of) biceps didn’t give out and send me into head trauma and life long mental retardation.


It was a rough night.

But hey – I survived.  And there was actually one part I really liked.  Apparently rock climbing floors have super springy goodness in them so that when you actually do fall from the top wedge, you don’t automatically feel death – you get a little bounce first.  Walking around on the stuff was the highlight of my night.   You know what? I would pay the same amount of money I paid to rock climb just to be in a room full of it.  Hmm…

Next million dollar idea? ♣

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I Will Never Be Smarter Than I Was in Third Grade

21 Mar

I was the smartest I’ll ever be in 3rd grade.  I’m sure of it.

Well, you know… relatively. When I was just a wee lass back in elementary school, they had this thing called the CAT test, which was an aptitude test they gave kids every few years to see how things were cooking in their cerebrums.    And when I was in the third grade, I aced it.  I got every single question right and was rated in the top 1% of third graders in the nation.

That was the shining moment of my brain’s career.

It really didn’t have much to do with me.  It had a lot to do with bopping from school to school and being lucky enough to have the last be a step ahead of the next.  And it had even more to do with my older brother teaching me his homework after school, which was 3 grades ahead of mine.

I was a super nerd and it was glorious.

So that was my moment: there in third grade.   Suddenly there was all this pressure to perform – and by the time I made it to the 6th grade aptitude test and ended up in the top 2% instead of the top 1%, it was clear things were headed quickly downhill.

After all this time, I’m finally on to the culprit for my brainpower’s slow decline over the years: Awful 90’s Music.

The decline of my brainpower directly correlates with the decline in quality of 90’s music.   You see, it wasn’t just that the music was bad.  It was that the music was bad and I liked it. There’s only so many times you can sing “Boom Boom Boom, I want a double boom” and “She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck” before something very real and very stupid happens to your brain cells.  I’m not sure if I can sue the 90’s music scene for damages, but I’m looking into it.  In the meantime, allow me to share with you some of the terrible 90’s songs that I *shudder* actually liked.

This isn’t an “all time worst” list by any means.  These are simply awful songs that I am embarrassed to say I enjoyed at one time.  And their videos are all awkward, to boot.  Real awkward.

Enjoy.  ♣

Summer Girls by LFO

There were a lot of bad boy band songs in the 90’s, but I give a gold suck star to LFO’s Summer Girls for lack of effort.  They use all the same arm and hand movements, have a bad video with no cool dance moves, and managed to stick out for their bad lyrics in a time when all boy band songs had bad lyrics.

Dr. Jones by Aqua

A lot of people think “Barbie Girl” when they think Aqua, but at least that song was making fun of something.  I’m not so sure this song is making fun of anything.  In fact, it might actually have been them giving songwriting the good ol’ college try. I’m pretty embarrassed by this one.  Because I seriously liked it.  Watch the video; I dare you.

Boom Boom Boom Boom by Vengaboys

This is just a mess.  A big ol’ mess.  Terrible lyrics, some strange lesbian thing going on, and bad dancing.   But it has an infectious beat that digs into the deep recesses of your brain and doesn’t let go until you’re seriously stupid.

2 Become 1 – The Spice Girls

At the time, I didn’t realize how sexual this song was.  I find it amazing that the lyrics are “I wanna make love to you” and I didn’t catch on.  Even better is the part near the end where Baby Spice says “Be a little bit wiser baby, put it on, put it on”.  Condom reference? I think so.

The Bad Touch by Bloodhound Gang

It may not even be fair to list this one because obviously a bunch of guys in monkey suits don’t take themselves seriously.  But it was still an awful song and an awful video.   Someone must pay.

Lonely Swedish (The Bum Bum Song) by Tom Green

This one takes the cake.  Not only because it was massively idiotic, but because I thought it was funny.  And for a time, I thought Tom Green was funny.  And that pretty much gives you a good idea of what I was like in middle school.


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Puppy Amusement Parks: My Next Million Dollar Idea

20 Mar

You know - like this. Except instead of leaping over barbed wire, they'd be leaping over giant Snausages. Awesome.

I know my million dollar ideas don’t typically work out and that’s why I’m blabbering away on a corner of the Internet instead of on TV selling ideas to people.  But hey – one of these is going to hit a homer.  I just know it.

Today’s million dollar idea?  Puppy Amusement Parks.

There are tons of people that want to have a dog but can’t because of their life situation.  Me, for example.  I love the guys but I just can’t have one in my apartment.  I couldn’t give one enough space for it to be happy, I couldn’t be home often enough to spend time with it, and I can’t afford to feed one and buy it all the awesome things I will want to give it for being so darn adorable.

But I’ll tell ya – on a day as beautiful as yesterday was, I really wish I had one to strut around the neighborhood.

On a gorgeous day, the first thing I do when I wake up is thank God for the super awesome day.  And then I wish for a puppy.  Because what’s the sense in a gorgeous day if you don’t have a dog to take to the park during it?

That’s where Puppy Amusement Parks come in.

You know what would be so much cooler than an animal shelter?  An non-profit animal amusement park.  I’ll just create a super awesome dog utopia and house as many dogs as can comfortably and happily live in that space as possible.  And I’ll charge admission to humans.

Think about it.  The dogs get people to play with them, they get state-of-the-art dog equipment, and people get attached to a particular dog during their time there, perhaps they’ll even give it a good home.

Of course, I’d have to hire vets and animal folks of different shapes and sizes and whatnot.  And the money spent on a ticket price can go toward the cost of housing, treating, and showering the dogs in love and affection 24-7. But designing the place will be loads of fun.  I could just throw a bunch of little kids in a room and have them dream up the place.  Heck, I could run a contest at schools all over the nation to dream up the most awesome dog utopia they can think of and use it as a way to boost awareness of local shelters.    I’ll bet five-year-olds can dream up some pretty slammin’ dog superparks.

I’m thinking a Seuss-y look would be cool, but that will be my backup plan in case the 5-year-olds don’t work out.

But they will.  They’re brilliant.

And if you don’t like this idea, then you must hate puppies and little kids.  Those are the only reasons I will accept. ♣

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The Things I Could Be Doing Instead of Blogging

19 Mar

I can’t believe I’ve written a post every single day this year.  I mean, I know I made a big deal about it and everything, but I’m not so sure I ever believed I would accomplish it.  And I haven’t yet.  But I’m almost past the first quarter and I’m going to have to reflect on these small victories if I’m going to keep moving along.

I started this blog thanks to inspiration from a friend who took a picture every day for 365 days.  The whole 365 project is really catching on these days, but back when she was working through her 365 album, it was new to me.

Once I put up the blog, I told her I felt an incredible weight on me.  365 posts is a lot of posts.  How will I have that much material? What if I write something *gasp* boring?!

She said I couldn’t think like that.  She said that the 365 project is about dedicating yourself to that one thing just once a day.  Just once every single day.  Not 365 days in a row.

It’s a small, but significant distinction.

And so here I am halfway through March and still chugging along.  I’ve had good posts and not-so-good posts.  But I’ve done it every single day.

I’ll admit that I’ve thought from time to time that I’ve daydreamed about what it would have been like to try a post a week instead.   Just imagine! I’d have an entire week to whip out just one good piece.    A week! Do you realize how LONG THAT IS?

I’ve also fantasized about the other things I could be doing with the time I spend on blogging.  Of course, before I had a blog I didn’t do anything at all during this time.   But now that I’ve seriously committed myself to one thing a day, I’ve been spending a lot of time plugging hypothetical replacements in this time zone and fantasizing about the results.  They’ve included

Exercise: holy cow man.  If I worked out for an hour a day every SINGLE day without excuse, I’d be a lean, sexy beast.  Rawr.

Cooking: I’m not too shabby in the kitchen, but who can’t benefit from a lesson or two in proper cutting methods?  And I’ve yet to attempt a pie.  Ever.  They scare me.  But after a some focus and good old time investment, I reckon I could be quite the kitchen sensation.

Starting my own business: I have a few really excellent ideas for this but most consume both time and money.    At least, that’s what my excuse has been in the past.  So far I’ve proven I have at least 77 hours of time that could be mustered up if I really wanted them.  And my t-shirt raffle proves that I’ll happily invest in something I enjoy, even without promise of return.

Becoming a fierce fiddler. I’ve always wanted to have some crazy awesome hidden talent.  Though I’d be totally fine with ripping it up on guitar or being a classical pianist, there is something I find simultaneously amusing and super cool about the prospect of being a ground-stompin’, down-home country fiddler.

Bein’ a Hottie. My typical self-maintenance program involves a shower, clothes (thank goodness), and a little makeup.  But if I spent the hour I blog everyday blowdrying my hair and doing some serious construction, I could walk the streets a super hottie.  Imagine the power.

But alas, I’ve dedicated myself to being a blogger extraordinaire.   And that’s pretty darn cool too.  And so press on, I shall! Just 287 more to go.

I mean one.

Just one more.  Tomorrow and then the day after, and so on. ♣

Funny – I had this post in my queue because I was struggling and thought I could use a reflection post to motivate myself.  And then I got Freshly Pressed! Nothing like some increased traffic and a slew of new comments to keep me going.  Thanks so much for stopping by!

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Your Lipstick Is Hurting My Brain.

18 Mar

I have blogged before about how awkward I find elevators.  I don’t like unspoken elevator etiquette, I don’t like confined spaces, and I don’t like people.

Every day outside my apartment is a challenge.

Yesterday I was on the elevator at work, sandwiched between two older women.  The one on my left was wearing an incredibly colorful scarf, and the one on my right was admiring it.  It was a nice, elevator-appropriate exchange.  Something or other about it looking lovely, and then something or other about it being from Italy.

Why is it that every time someone’s clothes are complimented they say it’s from somewhere ridiculous?

So woman #1 exits the  elevator feeling all lovely about herself and her choice to express herself through her wardrobe and I’m left with woman #2.   I’m not really a morning person and I usually spend my time on the elevator psyching myself up to face the corporate jungle for 8 hours without running out the door screaming bloody murder.  So I’m not really one for elevator chat.

Unfortunately for me, woman #2 was.  And she was still fixated on the Italian scarf.

“I just love that scarf.  It was so colorful!  I can’t wear anything like that.  I sometimes buy things that are colorful but I can’t actually wear them.  I don’t know why.  I just never do.  I can’t ever wear them Blah Blah  Blah HAHAHAHA”

I could only stare at the floor numbers for so long before the silence became a murder weapon, so I attempted to muster up something in reply.  But just when I was about to speak, I turned to her and saw that half a stick’s worth of berry lipstick had gathered on her front teeth.  I instantly suffered from a severe brain shutdown and could only manage something like

“Well….I…like your blazer.  It’s…. a color.”

I followed it up with a good, long,  inappropriately intense stare.

She was clearly uncomfortable, but I’d lost all communication with my central nervous system and nothing could be done to save me.  She even graciously allowed time for me to recover with a witty remark or with an explanation of my awkward statement.

But I just stared.

And stared.

Unable to take the wrath of the berry lipstick, I averted my eyes and looked down toward her pleated pants, which offered no solace.

By the grace of God the elevator finally stopped on her floor and realizing she could escape the situation, she bolted. I was left there in my shame and misery, unprepared for my day and fully-fixated on the image of a chunk of berry lipstick.

How does one person get that much lipstick in their mouth instead of on their lips?  How does someone who claims to buy colorful accessories but not to have the courage to wear them able to wear such a bold makeup color?  Why was she wearing pleated pants?

I had a lot of questions, but alas Woman #2 was gone and the elevator reached my floor.  I was instantly greeted by a slew of morning people, all rammed up to tackle their exciting day at the office.  Unfortunately, I had not been able to use my elevator time well and was not prepared for my day.

I can’t even count how many times I was asked if I was okay yesterday.

I hate being asked if I’m okay when I’m at work.  I don’t really even know what it means.  Am I okay?  No.  I’m not okay.  I’m stuck inside working for money so that I can go back outside and use the money to do things I actually want to do.  And I know that you feel the same way.  And I think it’s incredibly strange how we all just pretend that sitting in cubicles and sending emails to each other all day is normal human behavior.

I’m not sure what I’m supposed to look like in that scenario, but apparently I don’t fake it properly unless I’ve had the elevator time to work on my office face.

Lesson learned: next time, opt for the wrath of the elevator silence.  ♣


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I’m Living with a Terrorist

17 Mar

My cat is making me doubt my ability to be a good mother.

I sometimes think about killing my cat.

I’m having a really hard time dealing with my cat’s dependency issues.

She used to just be a very loving cat who would rub up against me to see if I was interested in her affection.  If she deemed it appropriate, she would launch into an all out love fest all over my lap, legs, feet – wherever she could maneuver herself for my attention.

But now she’s a monster.

From the moment I wake up, she’s there – staring at me.  She follows me into the bathroom, follows me from the shower to my bedroom, and from the bedroom to the door.  I used to think she did it because she was hungry, but every time I rush to feed her in the morning, there is still evidence of her meal from the evening prior.

Sometimes I get so creeped out by her watching me get dressed that I put her outside the door until I’m finished.

When I come home after work she goes into full attack mode, tripping me while I walk, lurking over me while I cook, and sometimes ramming her head into my hand so forcefully that I have actually spilled things on myself.   She’s insatiable.

I thought her new attitude was a symptom of loneliness.  I thought that perhaps I wasn’t spending enough time with her.  But regardless of whether I pet her for an hour straight and follow it up with a rousing game of “chase the laser” or I ignore her all day, she cannot be tamed.  I’ve fed her treats, massaged her, pet her nicely, pet her harshly, picked her up, taken her for a walk (yes, I took my cat for a walk), and let her lie on me even when it’s incredibly inconvenient.  None of it helps.  If I want to read something, I have to do it standing up or my book will get forcefully nudged out of my hand, and she will spend her time putting her body between me and the page I am reading.

She has been known to lie down directly on top of something I have in my hand as I read it.

At night I’m so terrorized by her that even when I’m not yet asleep, I slow down my breathing and fake it so she moves on.

I’m living in fear and I can’t take it anymore.  It’s a wonder I can even do a blog a day without her putting her litter-laden paws all over the keys and foiling my attempts.

Recently, I’ve been feeling slightly maternal.  I don’t know if it’s the soon-to-be-aunt in me or the ticking of my own biological clock,  but babies are starting to kind of grow on me.    But now I’ve got this insatiable cat and I’m starting to feel like my entire life revolves around her and her ridiculous requests and I just can’t do this.

I can’t be a mom if my cat is introducing me to what I can expect from motherhood.  I fear I may become violent. ♣

She stared at me like this the entire time I wrote this post. ...help...me.....

 

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Please Excuse the Pointing Gentile

16 Mar

Isn't it glorious?

The girl at my local bakery gave me a nasty attitude yesterday.

I don’t typically wander into bakeries, so when I do I expect them to be full of wonder and delight.  Pastries are happy.  Always.   In fact, when I began to daydream in the middle of the workday about the possibilities in store for me there, I pictured dancing jelly donuts, danishes, and beautiful, pristine cupcakes.  I was excited to stare at all the loveliness through the clear glass, all excited with eyes as big as saucers.

I guess I kinda forgot that other people go to the bakery a little more often than I do.  None of them really wanted to stop and treasure the special moment with me.

In fact, the girl behind the counter wasn’t having any of it.   Unfortunately, it appeared she hated her life, her work, and all beautiful things.   I can’t imagine a world where I hate pastries and find no joy in handing them out to others.  I mean, I may be a bit of a cynical recluse, but I can still get excited over the prospect of a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies and I might even go out of my way to give them to some people.

Perhaps her anger toward all that is wonderful was fueled slightly by my inability to pronounce the names of the things I wanted, which meant I had to resort to pointing.  I’ll bet she hated that.  I’ll bet that if I worked in a bakery, I would hate that too.  I totally get it.  But listen: I’m not Jewish and I live in a neighborhood full of Orthodox Jews.  I get newsletters in the mail from the local Jewish Community Center updating me on how they’re working to welcome the community into Sarah and Abraham’s tent.   But try as I might, I still sound like an idiot when ordering homentasch.  Which, for your reference, is also spelled   hamantash,  hamentasch,  homentash,  (h)umentash,  and (המן־טאַש).  So yeah, I’m not so sure on that one.  I’m really sorry.  Please excuse the crazy Gentile, making ridiculous demands and pointing at your pastries.

My entire idea of the bakery was shattered.  It was no haven, no refuge from reality.  Alas it was a shop.  A shop that employed people, some of whom I’m sure did not apply because of a deep, harbored passion for pastries.   Which meant it was only a matter of time before they became jaded grumplepussses (read: pointer haters).

So I’m sorry, small, pale, grumplepuss girl from my local bakery.  I forgot that the pastry world does not hold quite the wonder for you that it did for me.  But I memorized the way you said homen/humen/haman/hamentash/tasch, and I promise to not annoy you when I next visit.

Unless I need to order something else. ♣

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Mystery Dinner Theater in Space: Aw Yeah.

15 Mar

Sleuthing is serious business.

Hey.  It’s everyone’s favorite day of the week: Lollipop Tuesday!   If you battle with aggressive bouts of forgetfulness, feel free to check out the link “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?” at the top right corner of the page.

This week, I decided to do something I have long entertained but never acted upon.  I’ve been intrigued, I’ve been curiouser than a Curious Georgette, but never have I ever gone to mystery dinner theater.  Naturally, I couldn’t just go to regular old dinner theater.  To satisfy my funny bone and to sustain the high levels of geekiness per milliliter in my blood, I ventured over to a show called “Space Trek”.

Get ready for a double dose of nerd.

I’m not afraid to admit that I’m a bit of a Trekkie.   You have to understand that it was virtually impossible to leave my home at the ripe age of 18 and not have been at least brainwashed into liking the stuff.   I (read: my dad) was an avid follower of Star Trek: the Original Series, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager (ugh. worst ever.) and even shows like Babylon 5, which might has well been called “Star Trek: Babylon 5”.

For those of you who have no idea what I just said, just know that each of those is a different series with the same premise and different actors and a slightly different situation.  Just slightly.

It’s like Hercules and Xena: Warrior Princess.  Same idea, different genders, and sometimes they would do a dual show together.

…Did I just attempt to explain to non-nerds what the different Star Trek followings were by relating the Hercules and Xena shows?

This is a new low.

Anyway, the point is that I know so much about Star Trek that it’s impossible to not take advantage of the opportunity to see it mocked and warped into a murder mystery.   Of course, Captain Kirk (Captain Quirk) is the victim.  He also happens to be a big womanizer, a bad actor, and suffer from severe cases of pun attacks.   A lot of people had motive.

As you can imagine, I’m not exactly the go-getter type in these whodunit scenarios.   I had every intention of just sitting down, eating a yummy dinner, and getting a Lollipop Tuesday post in the books.  But it turned out to be so much  more.

When I throw myself into a new experience for a Lollipop Tuesday, I do my very best to embrace it in its entirety.  Instead of being myself and curling into my hermit shell, I make a sincere effort to mimic the actions of others so that I can truly say I tried something.  And just when I put my feet up to relax and watch the show, I realized that I hadn’t at all anticipated the sort of folks who come out to these things.

I was fixating on what I might have for dinner when I noticed a bright suit set in my peripheral vision.  I looked up to see a woman not a day younger than 60 jotting down something or other in a fury.   I  glanced to her paper and noticed a list she was building.

Apparently murder mysteries are quite interactive.  Each table had a paper with a set of facts, with all but one missing.   It was our job to go around and meet people to get the facts we were missing so that we’d have the back story before the show started and would thus be better sleuths.   When I looked around, I saw a gaggle of old ladies getting up from their seats with yellow, #2 pencils in their hands, ready to crack the case.

There was nothing I wanted to do less than go meet people and write down their information.

…but I have a blog to maintain.

So I went full force and covered all 7 facts in a solid 5 minutes.  I looked over shoulders, bargained with whomever appeared to be the table leader, and even shook a few hands.  *Shudder* It was painful.   So, so painful.

All of my work was for naught – I didn’t crack the case.  Looking back, it’s totally obvious that the alien princess used her stinger on Shmuck and that he was under her command and stuck in a hive mentality that forced him to kill Captain Quirk for command of the Secondprize.

I don’t know how I didn’t put that together the first time.

I’m still kind of twitching from the double dose of nerd I injected so forcefully and all at once.   So you’ll have to excuse me, but I need to go watch stupid and popular TV shows like Glee and American Idol before I erupt in a nerdgasm.  ♣

Here’s a little shameless plug for the company who hosted by Lollipop Tuesday experience.  Give them some clicky love. http://www.musicalmysteries.com

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Reverting to Childhood

14 Mar

I spent last night in the thick atmosphere of farts and laughter.

That’s usually the case when I visit home at the same time as my two older brothers.   Dad and I will prop ourselves up at the table and throw down a healthy challenge for a game of Five Hundred, and they instantly answer the call with fangs out, ready to kill.  It starts out as a respectable game between adults and inevitably spirals downward into a vicious competition and a good, healthy dose of bathroom humor.

I love those moments gathered around the table.  I have brief glimpses back into my childhood as I’m caught up in laughter with the people who know how to make me smile most easily.   Sometimes I look beside me and see my 31-year-old brother morph into his 15-year-old self.  We all follow suit over the course of the evening and before we know it, we’re all back in our childhoods, giggling, fighting, and doing our best to annoy each other.   Usually about halfway into the game, my brothers begin to communicate with each other with flatulence.   Though dad and I are always grossed out, we are also always very, very amused.

Dad heads the table.  Never a true adult himself, he easily keeps up with us while still managing to keep his eye on the game and serve a good helping of whoop-ass.   Luckily, I’m always on his team.

Though we’re all grown and out of the house now, we never fail to raid mom and dad’s refrigerator before we go.   It always feels like we’re getting away with something, though mom knows very well that we’ll pillage everything we possibly can before we depart and cooks much more than she needs to just for the occasion.

Sometimes when I make the long journey back home and open the door to my apartment, I feel so incredibly empty knowing I couldn’t bring my family with me.  But I know that if I did we would all drive each other batty and go our separate ways after only a few short days.    After all, when we were all forced to live together, there were epic battles involving swords, Windex, kitchen knives, and fists.  Everything was a weapon, and every day there was a new duel to be had.

Looking back, I’m so glad we survived those battles because I can look back on them fondly, knowing they brought us closer together in the end.   And though my apartment feels empty without their immature jokes and laughter, I can always look forward to the next time I will be huddled around mom and dad’s table with them.

…alternating between holding my nose, and gasping for air from the laughter. ♣

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