Do You Remember When 21 Was Old?

Apparently I've been inspired by music lately. I'm listening to Phoenix's "Countdown" and in it is the line above: Do you remember when 21 was old?

And so much of me responded instantly. My emotions, my heart, my memories, my wistful smile. Because I DO remember when 21 felt So Grown Up. So OLD. My GOD I'm 21, I'm so old, how did I live this long? And it's not even medieval times.

I'm 34 now and I know everyone older, even by a year, will be all "OH BUT YOU ARE SO YOUNG" and I know that, I feel that way. I've been the person I am my whole life, so I still identify as a 10 year old, 15 year old, 20 year old and so on. Luckily for me, I will always feel young. Anyone else, or is that just me? I mean, the root of my name means youthful, so maybe I'm one of the lucky ones, who knows.

I hate, though, how people are so eager to over-age themselves, to edge themselves out of the game, so to speak, by claiming old age, even though they're only 28, 32, 45 or so on. I hear from a lot of 65 year olds how they wish they could be 50 again. So if a 50 year old ever tells me "Oh well, I am too old for that sort of thing," then I am going to be like, "Girl, there are a ton of 60 year olds that want to slap the shit out of you."
But then here's another thing, I do tend to look back on my 20s wistfully. I miss those years because my God man, they were fun and they flew by way too quickly. Sure, they were tumultuous and full of emotion because that is what youth is for. Remember your first crush? I LOVE HIM FOREVER MOMMY I WILL NEVER WANT TO LET HIM hey what's on Nickelodeon right now?

So, my point is, I'm already looking back on the first chunk of my 30s with some nostalgia and... not sorrow but perhaps regret that I lived it too quickly, always waiting for the weekend to roll around, for summer, for Christmas, for a party, for my pregnancy to end so I could meet my child, for the newborn stage to finish up already so I can just fucking GO TO SLEEP, and so on and so forth.

Todd and I joke around about how by Tuesday evening, the week is over. I stay home Wednesdays and Thursdays, so those days fly by for both of us: Todd works those days so they're jam packed. Mine are busy with chores and spending quality time for Alex, and that makes them sweep along all too quickly for me, as well. And then it's Friday. And then we take a deep breath, and suddenly it's 2014, my child will be in preschool soon and will be four years old in as many months.

I'll be 40 before I know it, then 50, 60, 70 and so forth. I just hope I'm not constantly looking backwards, being nostalgic, wishing I could go back. I want to look forward too, but also make sure I look around, appreciate every little minute of my life, and appreciate that right there on THAT DAY, whatever day it is, is the youngest I'll ever be for the rest of my life, that I am in the sunrise of the rest of my life, the spring, never the summer, never the autumn, never sunset, and not think about growing older, time passing by so damn quickly, as it is wont to do. I will always be the most vigorous version of myself, for however much more time I'm awarded.

I wish I could live forever, I do. Sounds immature, lacking in wisdom? Remember, my name means youthful! But since I can't, I guess I can just try to live it as much in the present as I can, with as much enthusiasm as I had when I was a baby of 21, but with better skin and a better credit rating.

The Unwinding Sigh.

I have always loved the word "sigh" because it's beautifully, romantically onomatopoeic. Sigh. You think of lovers sighing between kisses against each other's mouths, the luxurious sigh of want as you say goodnight to your date, leaning against the door as you lock it. There's the sigh before falling asleep, stretched out and comfortable, ready to chase dreams or let them come and surprise you, or the sigh after finishing a wonderful and satisfying novel (though for me that is frequently followed up with far more melancholic sighs as I try to find a book that is on par with the previous; we call that a book hangover). Sure, there are also sad sighs, exasperated sighs, lonely sighs.

When Todd and I visited Venice on our honeymoon, we visited the Palace of the Doge. It was all very impressive and intimidating (there were these boxes shaped like, if memory serves, demonic faces, and you could rat people out as spies or um, I don't know, anti-Doge people, by writing their names on paper and slipping it into the open maw of said demon), but the thing that struck me most was The Bridge of Sighs. It was a bridge crossing to the jail cells over a canal and the windows on the enclosed bridge offered the soon-to-be-prisoner a final look at glorious Venice. It would prompt a sigh. A sad, wistful sigh. Still a beautiful word isn't it?

I could talk about lovers or sorrow all day, but the sigh of which I just reminded myself was actually a very meditative one that I employ while swimming laps. It's been months since I've swum but there is this certain slow, steady, satisfied sigh sometimes I will make. Not like Henry VIII after a large meal or perhaps a beheading, but just a mellow exhalation through my throat and out my nose. I do this sigh after every turn while swimming laps, to steady my breathing as I propel forward underwater as long as possible to really gain as much speed and distance as possible before breaking the surface with my first stroke.

I love that sigh! I love getting reminders of it, getting reminders of the meditation that comes with swimming, even on a rainy fall day like today. Swimming is lovely for that, because if you want, you can completely lose yourself in it. Want to forget a crummy day? No problem. Focus on keeping your arm extended as you pop your face out for a breath, focus on twisting your torso, not kicking your feet, or counting your strokes to see if you can shave one or two off during your next length. And suddenly, despite thinking "These 40 laps are going to take forever," when you first slip into the cool water, you're on lap 25 and are so in the zone you're almost (I said almost) sad there's only 15 to go.

But you can also choose to let the technique switch to auto pilot if you'd like. You can reach the edge of the pool, tuck and twist and push off, give that long, soothing sigh, breathing under control, everything steady as she goes, and let your mind wander. You don't need an iPod to drift off if you want. You don't need any distractions to let your thoughts tumble around you in the swirl of bubbles and the blue water, just you, following the stripe of black tile on the bottom of the pool, and the motions and the water and your deep, unwinding sigh.

Discipline is Difficult.

That's a direct quote from Gwyneth Paltrow in the interview she gave People magazine. She was describing how hard it is to work out two hours a day, Monday through Friday. I was like, damn.

So, here's the thing about Gwyneth Paltrow: she can be such an annoying pain in the ass. Not for working out, or for being famous or privileged but sometimes in interviews and in her blog, she just comes across as an insufferable snob. Like promoting a t-shirt that costs over $1,000. Yes, you read that right. No, I'm not drinking and accidentally added two extra zeros. That's the kind of horseshit that GP pulls. She also makes a cookbook with recipes that absolutely contain no sugar, alcohol, gluten, dairy, or food. And like, come on. You are friend with Mario Batali. Fuck off, right?

Anyways, this article though, finally gave me a bit of appreciation for her or at least that tough discipline of hers. I used to have that, people! I paid off all my debt once upon a time. I started and finished a story (but never edited it, hurr). I went back to college after flunking out and fucking nailed it. I got in shape, I learned how to run, I ran some races, I did a weekend's worth of child labor with only 9 hours' worth of drugs. I was disciplined, baby!

But lately, that's sort of slipped. I love spending my money, I love eating and drinking, I love sitting around on the sofa playing games on my phone instead of working on my story. I love making excuses and saying, well, I don't feel like sacrificing anymore.

But, if I don't sacrifice the game-playing and couch-lounging, I sacrifice a shot at publishing something I've been working on for six years. Yep. Six years. People write books in as many months. And if I don't sacrifice the time to work out, or those five heaps of Alex's mac and cheese, then I sacrifice all those gorgeous clothes in my closet that are getting tighter. If I don't sacrifice one thing, I'm going to sacrifice the other.

You know, another reason that article clung to me, was that a few days later after reading it, Todd and I were talking and he mentioned how impressed he was when we were dating that I had paid off my debt, all by myself. He had been impressed, proud, inspired. And I was just like, aww, thanks hon, that's cool. And then I was like, damn, I suck nowadays.

So, I decided to stop all this shit. The diet, the working out, back on track. Cut back on excess. Increase healthy choices. Get off the fucking couch, put down the iPhone, and pick up your story. Fix it. Finish it. Get an agent. Put your skinny jeans back on. Spend quality time with Alex. Refill the goddamn hummingbird feeder.

Discipline is difficult. But it feels so good. That's how I've felt all week. I've focused on work while at work (what?!), I've focused on me while working out, and I've focused on family while at home. I've been writing more this week than the past three months. There is a svelte little ruby-throated hummingbird guzzling nectar out in the back yard. I'm going to enjoy diet coke with lime tonight while Todd has his beer. Saturday I'm going to do another two mile walk with Patton, just the dog and me, together, focusing on each other. Tonight before bed, instead of Scramble with Friends, I'll be going over my story.

But I still did buy another bottle of completely unnecessary nail polish today at Target.

Hey, discipline is difficult, okay?

Egyptian, if you must know.

So naturally...



Acceptance.

Funny, one time I put in my weight and height and all that crap and while my BMI was totally normal, the site dubbed that as "acceptance" and I was just like, OH THANK YOU.

Anyways, acceptance... What does that mean? It means, in context of today's post, that I need to accept that there are just some things I am not good at. Things that, 90% of the time just don't turn out well. I need to realize that there are things I am amazing at (picking husbands, making babies, baking flourless bread), and other things that I just suck at (math, being patient, using cheese graters).

It's the latter subject in that last parenthesized string to which I currently refer. How many times have I grated myself? Too many to count! You'd think I'd just give up, but noooo.

Isn't that absolutely disgusting? I kinda feel like an asshole, posting that pic and enlarging it like I have, but oh well. I bled like a stuck pig for about 20 minutes. All because I was too impatient (recall list of weak suits) to wait for Todd to finish what he was doing and come help. All because I was making my fabulous mushroom soup early so I could sit on the sofa and drink wine watching Once Upon A Time and Downton Abbey.

I mean, I am a woman who has stabbed herself in the center of her palm one holiday season because I was trying to dislodge a melted, iron-hard candle from a glass holder with a goddamn steak knife. I broke the glass, naturally freeing the candle and leaving nothing else to stab but myself. Yay!

I need to accept that fact and either wait for Todd to do it or use my Kitchenaid food processor. But the cleaning, and the parts, and oh come on, I won't hurt myself this time righOH GOD JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL THERE IS BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

Losing My Religion.

Yesterday this gem popped out of a strange and randomly stormy day. It was gone before you knew it, but luckily a coworker alerted me to its presence. "It's like God is saying everything's okay!" he say jokingly, but considering how this photo doesn't come near to doing the rainbow justice, it sort of was like a giant, glowing, gorgeous message from God. I heard Bob Marley in my head singing "Every little thing, gonna be all right" and it put a smile on my face.

Anyways, early this morning I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Some song (no Bob Marley unfortunately) was stuck in my head. Now, often times when this happens, and it happens a lot, I like to say the Our Father in my head to smooth away annoying lyrics, and quite frankly to soothe myself. I don't go to church nearly as often as I'd like, but my goodness does our child seem to sleep in on Sundays more than any other day. And I really don't feel like hauling ass feeling fat and unattractive in a dressy outfit, chasing down goldfish and books and toys to go sit in church with a squirming toddler.

Anyways, saying the Our Father, or the guardian angel prayer, or the Hail Mary, or the Apostles Creed when I can remember it, is a comfort to me. I often repeat one of those prayers a few times, add in some personal shout outs to the Lord on behalf of my loved ones, and then, miraculously (it IS a prayer to the Lord after all), I will drift off to sleep.

Anyways (JUST KIDDING, wanted to make that three out of four paragraphs starting with Anyways).

But this morning, something happened. I got to "as we forgive those who trespass against us" and I drew an absolute and utter blank. I have been saying this prayer for most of my life, I know it like the back of my hand. What does the back of my hand look like? Now I'm panicking because I desperately want to look down at my typing fingers. Are those my hands? I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S REAL ANYMORE

I started over, and boom, right at the trespass/forgive/other people line, I hit a wall. And it made me sad. It freaked me out a bit too. I felt a little lost, and a little lonely. I believe in God, so if you don't the next line will make you eye-roll. I do believe God is always listening, but for some reason, having my prayer interrupted by an utter brain fail made me feel like the call got dropped. I felt disconnected and sorrowful for that feeling. I kept repeating it over and over and over again, and I never got back to sleep. The moment I got to the office I sat down, and boom, like a wave of relief, the words came to me.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen. That's the version I've known and loved, and it felt like a warm embrace to say those words, silently to myself. It made me miss church, and mayber, just maybe, I'll squeeze into something presentable on Sunday and shovel Cheerios and goldfish into my girl's mouth so I can try to listen to the priest before she inevitably says fuck this shit by throwing a tantrum.

I love you, Lord! Sorry about the dropped call, I'll check in with my service provider. Unless Alex sleeps in. Sorry. Forgive me? Yeah, I thought so. Thanks, God. Every little thing, gonna be all right.

Old Faithful.

Todd has to take his ring off when he teaches kung fu or works out or does heavy labor, because his ring is made of tungsten, and it's so durable and hard core that if you hurt your hand, you won't hurt the ring. But you won't be able to get the ring OFF if you injure that finger. Some guy in some line at some place had a tungsten ring and told Todd this. It could all be a lie! But still, those are the times he removes his ring.

I never take mine off. Well, okay, not never, but it is extremely an absolute rare event when I do. A few days ago, I took some pictures. Here's the proof:

My God, my pinky looks positively stubby in that photo. But anyways, I love how the lines above and below my ring set are like my knuckle creases. Permanent. A part of me, a part of my very anatomy and physical make up.

I also like how there is very obviously something missing without my rings. Like my body has saved a place for them, for when they get back. Maybe I should get them enlarged. I tried my mom's rings on and they slide right on, and her fingers are absolutely tiny. So I know my rings are, obviously, a little snug. They always have been because it feels safer and more secure to have them that way. But there's that story about a tree growing around a bicycle so I don't know. I do enjoy this very obvious display of devotion though.

Humble Pie. But I can't have pie. :(

So I don't think I mentioned it on here since I only posted like twice during my epic two-week-long vacation, but over the holidays my brother in law's wife's family (say that three times fast) came down with epic colds, and then passed the joy on to my brother in law, sister in law, mother in law and at last, my dear sweet husband. Alexandra and I were total badasses and didn't get sick.

Then, this past weekend, Friday I believe it was, Alexandra got sick. My poor baby! Froggy little voice, occasional cough and the most darling, cutey-wutey requests for "I need to blow my nose." But still, I reigned supreme in the world of immunity. I was kicking ass! An Emergen-C here, an orange there, and I'd be fine.

I went to yoga yesterday. It was hot and smelly like yoga in Tucson should be, which has nothing to do with this current tale except I just wanted to share how smelly and hot it was because come ON yoga studio, it was 65 yesterday, was a heater necessary after 329748 people did yoga in there all day long? My class was at 4pm so I kind of pondered that in down dog, ass in the air: whose bodies am I still smelling right now? Whose collective BO and BTUs am I currently wallowing in? I'm surprised I didn't barf.

Anyways. It sort of descended on me yesterday in that yoga class. The ticklish, scratchish throat. The hallmark of an oncoming cold, the appetizer to the meal of suck that is on its way, the um, the avant garde, um. Oh fuck it, the first fucking sign that you're going to be sick and it's going to suck and you might as well just give up.

And today, a MONDAY! YAY! it has descended. I am sick, and I feel stupid for being all, God I'm awesome, sorry you're sick! HAHAHAHAH! I RULE. Oh well. And then, thanks to yoga, I'm extremely sore which, when added to already present body aches, really drives in the fact that yep, asshole, you're sick and you are going to feel like shit for days!

So, yeah. Humble pie. I'm a mortal after all. Now if I could only actually eat pie before February 4th.

Christmas is OVER.

I said this two days after Christmas when all the decorative clutter finally drove me off my own little fiscal cliff. I dragged out our Christmas storage bins and got rid of everything but the chili wreath, the ornaments hanging off the deer head, and the Christmas tree itself. Man, did that feel good.

I said it again yesterday when I single-handedly removed all the ornaments and strands of lights (I think there were 10 or 12), shook out my fabulous tree skirt and had Todd drag the poor bastard out of the house, sweeping merrily behind it the whole way.

And I said it again, inwardly, to myself this morning as I stepped on the scale and saw the Van Damage. It's not as bad as it could be, certainly not as bad as it was the first time I stepped on it and it was off balance and I almost fell over.  But it was enough to further strengthen my resolve to go mostly Paleo for the month of January. Well, January 4th to February 4th (I was on vacation until yesterday, people! I had to have one more night of pasta!).

What does that mean? Well, it means no dairy, and that's where part of the "mostly" Paleo comes in. I still intend to enjoy a Greek yogurt every morning because 14g protein for 110 - 130 calories and zero fat is just too good to pass up.  Secondly, if I want some parmesan, a hard cheese and therefore not as OMG EVIL for you, then I'm going to have a little parmesan.

What I am doing that is Paleo is avoiding white potatoes, breads, pastas, rice, grains in general and for the most part avoid corn as well. But another way I'm editing it is allowing myself peas and lentils because in my opinion those bad boys are super foods: high in carbs, yes, but also high in protein and fiber. SO WHATEVER.

Oh, and one more thing: I am totally having my wine on the weekends. Screw you Paleo! If cavemen knew about pinot grigio they would have never hit the Iron Age. They'd be all, "Why? This stuff comes in boxes, that's all I need." And now everyone gasps and goes "I thought she minored in history!"

My working out also went to practically a standstill. I think I can count the jogs I did on one hand for the past two and a half weeks. I'd like to get back into the swing of things and maybe get some yoga classes into my weekly workouts so I can get some good stretches for my damn plantar fasciitis (quit running you say? Perish the thought!).

So, yeah. Christmas is OVER. We had an absolutely amazing Christmas and holiday season and it was lovely with all the cookies and brie and escargots and champagne and Bailey's in my Christmas morning tea, and sleeping in and staying up late and laying around watching Cinderella in my plantar fasciitis boot with Alexandra instead of biking or running, and parties and dinners and eating ribeye for an appetizer.

But now it's sort of nice thinking of yoga and jogs with Patton, walks with Alex and her new tricycle, big decadent salads and club soda with lime. Cavemen did have club soda with lime, right?

Jessica.

Six years ago today I lost my aunt Jessica in a terrible tragedy. I miss you Jess, and I love you. I can still hear you in my head when you called me Jillie, and told me that Todd and I were to be married in the year of the Aquarius. My heart aches. Love to you in heaven above and beyond

Soup, but then Alex slapped me.

Yeah, man! That title totally sums up my thoughts this morning when I wondered if I should blog about the amazing soup I made for dinner last night, but then as I leaned over the crib to kiss my daughter goodbye before work, she slapped her little hand against my face, pushing me away from her because she wanted her daddy to open the door and get her out.

Happy birthday mom! You're a bitch and I hate you!

You know, I thought I'd have to wait until at least 13 before getting 100% rejection from my kid. I guess that's my birthday lesson today! Happy birthday mom! You're a fucking idiot for thinking that!

Oh well. At least the soup was good.

This is me playing Angry Birds.

I once read that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I fundamentally disagree with this idea. I think that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of hope.

-Debbie Millman

The Follow Through.

Lately I've been trying to make sure I follow through with what I'm doing. I never fully realized my overwhelming ability to leave shit half-done until I got married. Todd and I never lived together before marriage so we found ourselves amused, not annoyed, by the day to day idiosyncrasies of the other person. Todd's was hanging his towels and clothes on doors. I guess being 6'7" really opens up the possibilities of where you can hang your clothes. Mine was leaving drawers open.

You guys, I AM SO BAD ABOUT THIS. It's starting to annoy me because five years after this being pointed out to me, I am still doing it. I am a walking, talking scene right out of The Sixth Sense. It's like being haunted except I am the ghost.

Anyways, I started realizing how this one little quirk (we'll call it that to maintain its cuteness and not at all dwell on its irritating nature) sort of bleeds into the way I do tasks. The way I pick up stuff and tidy up rooms in the house is like something out of a schizophrenic's journal. I will be loading the dishwasher, remember that Todd and I had water glasses on our nightstands, and go to the bedroom to get them. Then I will see that the bedroom trash can needs emptying, there are shoes that need to be put away and a ton of Alex's books are strewn about the floor.

So I'll take care of that stuff, put it all away, grab the glasses and walk past the bathroom. Another cup! Goddammit! How do three individuals go through glassware so fast? It's like another M. Night Shyamadingdong movie, Signs, where the little girl Bo takes a few sips from a glass and requires another one. I go in, set down the bedroom glasses because the bathroom rug is crooked, the toilet paper needs replacing and guess WHAT I left my contact stuff and saline solution and glasses out from earlier that morning so let's put THAT shit away and then by the time I come back to the kitchen, I have completely forgotten that the dishwasher is wide open and anyone could have tripped over it or, sometimes, the cat will be trying to lick water droplets off of the open door.

Sometimes this lack of follow through is a direct consequence of my desire to multi-task. I have discussed this before, but I really don't like doing just one thing when I know I can be doing two. It's why I refuse to start housework until I have a load of laundry going. My GOD it gives me thrills just thinking of accomplishing two things at once. My friend Allison told me that in their new house, the old washing machine required someone to sit on it in order to run and I about died at the thought.

Yesterday I was getting a glass of water for Alex and needed to refill the Brita pitcher. So I put the water on a drizzle and handed Alex her cup. I sat with her a bit, then realized I needed to start running her bath. I returned to the sofa to watch a little Beauty and the Beast with her. After a bit she gets up and runs around and so I get up to check out what she's doing and HOLY SHIT the tub is full. I turn off the water and we go back to get her Aurora barbie so Alex can bring her in the tub. Luckily Aurora was on the sofa and I could hear water running. That's weird, I thought. I just turned off the tub. Then I looked into the kitchen and saw the water overflowing out of the Brita pitcher. Way to save water, desert rat! Idiot.

Aside from wasting water, sometimes I kind of like how I go through things. It's fluid. It follows one thing on a path, of sorts, like a river, picking up other things in its current as it goes. And eventually I wind up where I started to finish it off. But at the same time, if I just do a job, like, load the present-and-accounted-for dishes first, finish cleaning the kitchen, and THEN move on, then there is a satisfying conclusion instantly.

Hell, if I can just successfully close drawers before leaving a room, I'll consider it an accomplishment.

Water and Why It's Horrible.

Okay so I mentioned in the vacation post that I have a fear of waves and a friend, Melisa, texted me wanting to know a little more.

I wish there was some exciting and unusual reason, but my reasons are pretty typical.

I once nearly drowned in a wave pool, as a small child, before being pulled out by a lifeguard. Those guys are pretty damn good at their job, considering there were, oh, like 250, 300 people in there.

When I was about 12, I got swept out "to sea", with another young buddy, thanks to the riptide action in Del Mar. We kept trying and trying to paddle our boogie boards to shore, but you know how those jerk riptides work. It wasn't going to happen. Once more, I owe my life to a lifeguard. Or coast guard. Whatever. But my gratitude runs deep.

Later, around 20, I was in Rocky Point, Mexico with my dad and some friends, where the only lifeguard is someone who wants to sell you weed or tamales and maybe some shit made out of a seashell. The surf was pretty intense but I was still pretty LOL WHUT about it. That is, until I got caught up with a wave, slammed down into the sand and held there, face and chest down, being continuously pummeled by the onslaught of surf. Over and over and over. I thought I was going to drown. I thought I would die, a mere dozen of yards away from my father. A handful of feet away from friends who were still splashing around in the ocean. When I was able to claw my way closer towards shore and out of the line of fire, I stood up shakily, adjusting my suit, looking for my dad. My legs were like jelly and I fought like hell not to cry. I don't think I told anyone, because I was embarrassed, and also too frightened to relive it through spoken word.

That was terrifying. The terror was real in all three circumstances, but you can see that the more recent the mishap, then the longer the tale and the fresher the terror. Last year for uncle Steve's wedding, we went to Ocean Beach, Todd, Amery, Scott and I. It was COLD. No sun, lots of chilly wind. Everyone else got in, but it was too cold and the surf too unfriendly for me to deal with it. Plus the next day I got super sick so I know I wasn't feeling it on that level, either. But still, even had the sunshine been out and immune system been at the ready, I wouldn't have really gone in very far.

Which is why it was such a rose colored day on August 4th, when I cleared the waves' break line and got to my favorite part: bobbing in the calm waters, occasionally ducking underwater before a wave broke, etc. It was lovely. The next day on Coronado, despite cooler temperatures and much more aggressive waves, I still went in, I still dove through the crashing waves. I did it! And then the dog shat himself from ingesting too much salt water.

But, let me tell you, my water phobia doesn't end there on that sun-shiny day, swimming around like a fish. Let's not even get stuck talking about the sea monsters and dinosaurs and aliens and shit that live down there. Fucking underwater grizzly bears with sharks for paws. I'm sure they're down there and no one can REALLY prove they aren't because that is how big and wrong and wicked the deep blue seas are.

I think I've done a Things That Creep Me Out post and I think I've talked about water. I know I've discussed sharks living in swimming pools because I'm a scientist and I just know these things. But here is a subject that gives me the heebie jeebies and never will not.

Obects Underwater Creep Me The Hell Out And Here Are Some Prime Examples

All of these images give me the creeps, the cringes, the shudders and the oh-hell-nos, but we'll start with the lesser of the evils.

These are trees. The first picture shows dead trees. And while some people, okay so while almost all people will be like, oh how hauntingly beautiful, such a serene photo of a quiet moment in nature, and all I see is a watery tomb. It seriously creeps me out. All I see here is premature death, trapped forever. Watery tomb.

These here trees are alive and growing underwater. The tops of the trees, above the surface of the water, are just long, jutting sticks, no foliage, no life. Like, these trees are all "Freedom of the air? The wind and the birdsong, clouds overhead? No thanks, asshole! I think I will stick to the murk and doom and hey, didn't someone just say watery tomb? Sounds good!"

See, there is this creepy, oppressive, claustrophia I feel when I look at these pictures. Also that whole drowning thing.

Onward.

Maybe I imagine being trapped inside and that's why this is creepy? All I know is that I saw this photo and my breath sucked in. I felt those sickly tingles on my arms and along my spine. And I know why: the real creep factor is seeing this from above the water. It's like being in a threshold between two worlds, land and sea, a threshold you aren't supposed to experience. I don't know, it just creeps me out.

This freaks me out too, for sure. Listing on its side, and WATER TOMB ALERT, it lost its little boat life, and I'm sure human lives were snuffed out here too. It's cold and alone and buried under so many tons of that oppressive, deadly, NOT FRIENDLY water.

... But want to see something EVEN WORSE?

AAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH GOD NO

That is just... I mean I just can't even... There is so much that is wrong with this, and it LITERALLY HURTS MY EYES TO LOOK AT IT. You would think that the sheer horror of this image, again above the surface of the water and therefore even more infested with demons and grizzly bear shark ghosts and aliens, would be enough to dull my hypersensitivity to all this horseshit, but NO.

Because someone did THIS:

Honey, if I came across this satanic B.S. I would shit my pants and I don't think pulling a Sir Robin in a wetsuit is very pleasant. I don't get the point behind it. It's not creative or special. It seems to be making fun of cults, or maybe harmony, or dead drowned people or maybe even underwater incontinence.

Oh! Here is a literal WHY GOD WHY for you:

Why someone thought the bottom of the sea was a great place to put a statue of our poor Lord, I WILL NEVER KNOW. WATERY TOMB, PEOPLE. WATERY TOMB. It's wrong on several levels. On ALL of the levels.

And now let's close out with somehing that I think lots and lots of people think is gorgeous when all I see is a portal to hell:

Oh God. That's all I can say, really. Is just... Oh God, NO. No, no, no. Oh God. NO.

My Favorite Dream.

I'm sitting here watching PBS and there's a promo for a show on dreams. It reminded me of my absolute most favorite dream ever. I dreamed it about 10 or 12 years ago but I remember it as if it occurred just last night.

It's pitch black. It's space, actually. And I'm naked. I'm falling through infinite space, naked as the day I was born, my back down and looking up. Periodically through my fall, which is heavenly and exhilarating, not at all terrifying or anything, I fall through a very thin sheet of stars. They feel like tiny cool beads on my back. I'm grinning, laughing, just falling through space.

It was wonderful, one of the most serene and joyous feelings ever. When I stopped falling, it's because I've landed on the moon, which is silvery, powdery gray. In face, every step sends up a small glittery, shimmery puff of moon dust. Just lovely.

Then I got on a plane, and my old cat, Park Avenue, was in first class with me. So we cuddled up together and took off, presumably to fly home. I am not sure, because I woke up after settling in with Park. I assume that part of the dream could be when he came to curl up with me in bed. I'm not sure.

It was just remarkable and whenever I think of that dream, I think maybe my subconscious was trying to remind me how much of a bad ass I am. I hope everyone has a dream like that.

Body.

I had a topic all set for today's post, but then I saw this on The Berry:

And it brought tears to my eyes. Why? I think that's obvious, because it's just not fair that we ladies mostly look like the gorgeous women in the bottom picture, but still dismiss that body shape as inferior to the shapes in the top picture.

It made me sad because I myself think the ladies below are fine, and normal, and I think I probably could fit in very well and very comfortable, with them. But...

Why a but? What's wrong with me that I can't accept it? I brought a child into this world, my body supported life and fed that little life for nearly a year. Why can't I get over the fact that I still don't fit in my skinny jeans?

I put a lot of emphasis on physical fitness in my life. My upper arms are fat and my love handles are ever-present, and I take those, from time to time, as signs of failure. I eat too much. I drink alcohol. I have steak too often. I can eat half a bag of Trader Joe's herbed popcorn. I don't work out hard enough.

A friend has a family member who is obsessed with working out. To skip a workout is a threat upon their entire existence. I used to be like that. I remember, at my thinnest (135lb at 5;11"), I was sobbing hysterically, pinching the literal inch of chub on my stomach, wailing to Todd that I was such an undisciplined fat ass and I didn't deserve to go out to dinner that night.

Yeah. You read all of that correctly.

And now, here I am, in a body that I had dreaded so horribly. Except... I feel the same now, as I did then, so much thinner and younger. I was terrified of gaining then, and I still am now, except I already gained it back. But I wasn't happy, due to that terror. And now that it's happened... Eh? Who cares, I guess?

It still bothers me, and I still obsess about it. I stare hungrily at the fit chicks in the gym, wondering what they do, if I should copy their every routine and workout regimen, until I realize... if I TRULY wanted it, I could do it. There is a 50 something woman there, big bouncy boobs, skinny as a rail, but she's there literally every single day. It is her absolute top priority, and it just isn't for me, anymore. I try to get there five days a week, but my workouts aren't 2 hours a day. More like one, if that.

I could quit drinking wine, stop eating steak once a week (IT IS SO GOOD YOU GUYS), drastically diminish my portions (a deck of cards is a serving of meat? Go fuck off!), fully commit to the Paleo diet (hello bagels), and wake up at 5am to go to the gym instead of wake up with my family and have fun bed-jumping time with a bursty, perky little 2 year old.

I think of the Victoria's Secret models, their beautiful bodies, their disciplined selves. The diets they go through before a runway show, the fact that Miranda Kerr, a mommy herself, relies on lots of juicing to maintain her figure. My brother in law and sister in law did juicing for awhile. In Amery's words, they got over it. Because COME ON.

Granted, if I were a runway model for fucking underwear, I'd live off wheatgrass and kale water or whatever, but... I don't know. I did that route, to get to my thinnest, but I still wasn't happy. I was just as critical and miserable as I am now, except now I have a baby, a husband, a happy family and delicious, delicious home made meals. They're not extravagant, they're healthy and nutritious, but food isn't an enemy.

I've put on some weight this week, due to a weekend of food and fun, and it bothers me, I won't lie. I can't work out because of my knee, we are about to go to California and romp on a beach where I will be surrounded by skinny minnies in their itsy bitsy bikinis. It's not a heart-warming idea, without a few workouts under my belt before I go. But... I have to just think of that photo. Those women in the Dove picture are still most likely models, albeit "plus size" and they all look really, really happy. Comfortable. Content.

I don't know what the conclusion of this post is. Perhaps it's that I'm torn. By the body I used to have and the discipline I used to have, both of which have been figuratively tossed out the window. The body and the discipline I have now are different, but so is my life.

I'm definitely a Dove Girl, not a VS Girl. Should I be sad about that? I don't think so. It's hard to change your perspective. It's hard to accept yourself, especially when there is obviously a bit of body dysmorphia going on. But I guess the whole message should be, rather than fight for a number on the scale, fight for acceptance. There are tears in my eyes as I type these last words, because I'm thinking of the photo, trying hard to accept myself the way I easily accept those Dove Girls. To give myself the understanding that I give out to others.

Since it's 100% an internal struggle, it's a lot harder. But I'm trying.

Sleepy Sleeperson

Last night, the stage had been perfectly set for some epic sleep. I had an absolutely kickass workout, I walked the dog, and we had an amazing comfort-food dinner of oven fried eggplant parmesan with a side of NOT PALEO DIET pasta and it was epic and awesome. No booze, no caffeine since 3pm. Watched TV until sleepy, read a little of Toddler 411 for old times' sake ("Babe, apparently Alex still needs vitamin D supplements!"), and with drooping eyelids, I shut the book and turned off the light.

Bing! Eyes wide open. Restless leg syndrome struck which was exacerbated by my gross leg hair snagging the sheets each time I squirmed. God, I really need to shave, I thought. Which led to this series of thoughts:

It's like I need pantyhose to sleep!

Who wears pantyhose these days?

Kate Middleton AKA Duchess of Cambridge, that's who.

God, she wears the prettiest dresses.

Her wedding dress was insane.

I hear the Queen called her wedding dress display "hideous" lol

Their balcony kiss was sort of lame though.

Why am I thinking about the Royal Wedding right now?

::Thinks back.::

Oh right, shaving my legs. God, they're so hairy.

Then I started getting a song stuck in my head, so I reverted to my tried and true method for ridding a song from my mind in bed: I think of the Harry Potter theme. It will never ever not ever no way get old to me, and it always makes me happy and calms me.

So I did that. Then about 423758947 other things popped into my head, thankfully none of them involving Kate Middleton. But unfortunately the pesky leg hair thing did continue to irritate.

Then I got hot. Then my arms would get uncomfortable. Then I started coughing when I swallowed my spit wrong. And finally after all this crap, I drifted off, only to be jolted awake by something in my dream.

And THEN the worst happened, I had a horrible dream that Alexandra had some horrible life threatening condition, something to do with her ears, and how the solution would be the insertion of some device but, if it "activates" or something, it could end up killing her too. We took her to Phoenix where this horribly aloof doctor performed these tests on her, and Alex just kept looking at me with pleading eyes, all while I'm thinking to myself, "This can't be happening... Wait, I don't think this is true... I have to be dreaming" and at that point I'd briefly wake, thinking to my groggy self She doesn't have any condition, this is just a dream but at the same time, the dream felt so FAMILIAR, that I'd wonder, now back in the dream, if I had just repressed the thought because it was so horrific.

AND THEN Alexandra woke herself from a nightmare with the most pitiful, sorrowful wail and the timing was so shitty it was all I could do to keep myself from checking on her. Granted, I'm glad I didn't because she went right back to sleep, but still, I could have really used some cuddles from my girl.

Eventually, I fell back asleep but still, being too hot and unable to find a comfortable position kept me tossing and turning the entire night until my alarm went off. In my state, I fleetingly, blessedly thought it was one of my days off and figured I forgot to turn off my alarm. Alas, I was wrong, or as Dumbledore would say, Alas: earwax!

Maybe I shouldn't watch True Blood at 9pm, or a National Geographic special on T-Rex. I don't know. But last night was one hell of a doozy, and despite being in bed for 8 hours, I feel like I only got maybe 5 good quality hours of sleep. Oh well. Tonight is another night.

GLASSES

So my glasses came the other day and this is how excited I was to get the call:

And I know I talked about WHY I was so excited, AKA how shitty my other glasses were. Let me show you.

Pair the first:

Do please note how the arms are DIFFERENT GODDAMN LENGTHS thanks to the (dearly departed) cat who gnawed on them. Oh and let's not neglect to mention the safety pin.

Pair the second, my prize from stupid old Lenscrafters. The safety pin fell out so now it looks like a beetle with its legs pulled off.

In pieces.

Ta-da! My conquest! My darling pair of new glasses, perfect prescription, perfect fit. The dude at Coscto (dude is his formal title) fitted them specifically to my face, shaping the parts that go behind my ears by dipping them in these super hot crystal glass bead type things? Did I ever tell you I'm a writer and the written word is the tool of my trade?

It has its own CASE. Kirkland Signature, baby!

I am a happy girl!

THE NEW PHONE BOOK'S HERE THE NEW PHONE BOOK'S HERE


I'M SOMEBODY

Fears.

One of our favorite TV shows just revealed a minor plot detail for this season, and crazy enough it is pretty close to a major theme in the story I've written that I hope to one day publish if I could ever get my ass off the internet in order to finish the editing process.

That's one of my biggest fears. Once I was in the middle of writing this rad story and then a fucking MOVIE came out and it was basically the same plot. Since we live in Tucson which is close enough to LA and since I was spending a lot of my free time in bars back then, I was convinced I'd talked too much about my Genius Book Idea in public and that some one from LA stole it and wrote a screenplay about it.

What, I am not paranoid!

Anyways, that got me thinking about fears. Now, I won't bore everyone with I'm Afraid to Die (since I already blogged about that) but also because DUH that is a pretty basic fear and where is the fun in that? Same with harm coming to my loved ones, etc. Here are some really stupid fears that I cannot shake no matter how old and wise I become, for your amusement and confusion.


1. First off, and I don't care WHO disagrees with me because it is a known fact that sharks live in the deep ends of pools, specifically at night. They get in there through the drain and are able to shrink to fit, sort of like an octopus or a small kitten or something, and the expand to roughly twice the size of the shark in Jaws even though that shark couldn't fit in the deep end. IT HAPPENS OK. THEY ARE THERE. YOU SWIM FAST THROUGH THE DEEP END AT NIGHT PEOPLE. Oh god, I get the shivers just thinking about it.

Granted, I'm terrified of large bodies of water in general so I guess it doesn't come as a surprise that I shrink down that fear into one scary sea creature and throw it in a seemingly (SEEMINGLY) harmless backyard swimming pool. There is this man made lake here called Pena Blanca? And when my dad told me it was probably 100 feet deep while we were swimming in it? I could have killed him. I could have died. Instantly, there was a monster in that lake. Then the bass started nibbling on my toes and I think I flew to shore I was so terrified.


2. Bathtubs in multi-floor apartment buildings or hotels freak me out. I am convinced the bathtub above mine will smash through the floor and crush me. Don't even get me started on how unsettling it is when you can hear the people in the apartment/room above you using the tub at the same time. I remember the first bath I had in my first apartment, which was in a single story triplex and I was SO RELIEVED, and I remember literally looking up at the ceiling and being so happy.


3. I used to have these horrible dreams of my teeth falling out and that used to be a huge fear of mine, so much so that after one particularly realistic dream (they ALWAYS start out innocently enough until I realize all my teeth are so loose I can just pluck them out of my mouth), I called my mother and made her promise me that she would help get me permanent teeth implants if it ever were to happen.

Anyways, those dreams never happen anymore. My dad told me once they were all about vanity and I wonder if that might be true. One dream site said that the teeth falling out represented death but since I'm still totally scared about dying and yet have no more teeth-related dreams, I don't think that's true. The dreams stopped when shit in life started getting real, so I think my focus drifted towards more than just being an extremely attractive woman. Hahahahaha.


4. These motherfuckers:

WHY IS THIS PERSON HOLDING SATAN IN HIS HANDS?!  I highly doubt I need to get into the reasons why this land leviathan scares me, but for those of you reading this who have never experienced the terror of an air borne palo verde beetle (YES THEY FLY), the reason why they suck so hard is because they fly the way a drunk person walks AKA without rhyme or reason. They fly right so you dodge left but then it's HEY JIL I AM HERE LOL LETS HUG AND KISS XOXO, PV BEETLE and my god, you need a fucking valium after an encounter like that and if you don't believe me please LOOK AT THE PHOTO


5.  We already discussed zombies!

Gesundheit.

So if everything happens for a reason, why do I always seem to sneeze directly after applying my mascara?