Dressing is Hard

When I was a kid my mom made all of my clothes.  I think I was ten years old before I got my first t-shirt. Mom just sewed everything I wore with the exception of my panties and socks.  This was great in the sense that as a preschooler no one ever had the same outfit as me; I worked circle time like Gisele on a red carpet.  Sometimes mom even made my Cabbage Patch Kid matching outfits.  This was exceptionally cool back in the 1980’s.

The unfortunate side effect of having your mom make all you clothes though is that none of your clothes have tags.  At first you may think this an advantage, no itchy tags irritating your skin.  You are clearly not a four year old.  If you were, you would see lacking tags in your clothes makes it simply impossible to know if your clothes are on backwards.  Every morning I would lay out my clothes on the bed, flip them around a few times, then make a stab at putting them on.

About half the time I wandered into the living room with my clothes on backwards.  It went the same way everyday.  Walk out into the house, mom giggles, shamefully walk back to bedroom to flips clothes around.  Those were the good days.  Somedays I made it all the way to a school backwards.  I would wonder why all day it felt like my shorts were awfully constricting in the ass, or why I couldn’t reach my arms farther than a foot in front of me.  I spent so many days looking like a baby t-rex with arms I could only move from the elbows.  Of course, these were the days I discovered when I got home I had been sporting my clothes backwards again.  Unfortunately, this was waaayyy before the famed rap group of the early 1990’s, Kriss Kross, made putting your clothes on backwards cool.

Mom could not understand why I had so much trouble. “TAGS, woman, I need TAGS!” I screamed.  Ok, so maybe the conversation was a little more subtle.  But eventually I did tell mom how all the other kids had tags in their clothes and could tell the front from the back.  I had total tag envy.  Mom’s solution was to take a little strip of seam binding, because it was prolific and cheaper than ribbon, and sew it into the back of my shorts, shirts, and dresses.  I was saved.  This drastically reduced the number of times I went backwards.  I would say it stopped it completely, but I was not that smart as a kid and there were still incidents.

Years later when I became a teacher I realized mom had given me an accommodation similar to those I would provide to my special education students.  Yup, that’s about right.  I was pretty special when it came to dressing myself.  I’d like to think I have gotten more proficient over the years.  Let’s be honest though, I may have my clothes on the right way, but my fashion choices can still be questionable from time to time.

I’m Busy…I Think

Now that I have quit teaching I honestly have a lot more time on my hands.  I am no longer working 50 to 60 hour weeks at school.  Instead I work about 24 hours a week at a bakery and about 18 hours a week writing.  So that’s only about 42 hours a week.  My net gain should be 8 to 18 more hours of free time for friends and fun.

But where are those hours?

I thought I would be spending time staying in touch with friends, going out to dinners, having long phone calls, hanging out with my family, or updating Facebook.  Instead it seems like I am always busy.  I know I am not, but it seems like I am.

I am diagnosing myself with perceived busyness disorder (don’t look it up, I totally just made up this disease), which causes me to think I am busy all the time.  I am always too busy to make that phone call, that lunch date, that trip to mom and dad’s house.  I am afflicted in a major way.

I cannot possibly be as busy as I think I am.  I have a nasty habit of wanting to avoid human contact and stay inside my house, cozy in my safe place.  So I feign business.  Somehow interacting with friends and family sometimes just seems way too overwhelming.  It’s not that I don’t love them and miss them – quite the contrary.   They are fantastic people, and I think about them all the time.  Sometimes it just feels so incredibly daunting to even consider reaching out to make contact with them.

I cannot possibly be the only one who suffers from this.

True Love

Yesterday I spent entirely too much time chasing an errant fly around the house.  I am not sure who was actually chasing who.  Every room I entered that little jerk followed.  I was super annoyed the airborne pest kept managing to avoid my murder attempts.  I flailed newspapers and flip flops in a desperate quest to end his life, but nothing worked.

Then Ryan came home and I remembered one of the many reasons we fell in love.  Ryan has Mr. Miyagi-like reflexes.  Well, kind of.

While we sat in the living room eating a nutritious meal of pizza and watching television the fly picked the wrong person to annoy.  It buzzed around enough to get Ryan’s attention.  Ryan tracked that fly until it was within range, reached up, slapped his hands together in a mighty clap, and ended the fly’s life.

What Ryan didn’t do was close his mouth.   

The fly’s carcass was driven by gravity straight into Ryan’s open orifice.  Ryan spit and sputtered, and managed not to swallow it.  It wasn’t pretty, but boy was I proud of my husband protecting me from household pests.  He’s quite the catch.

Perfectly Imperfect

Recently I have been toiling away on a few writing projects.  Today I finished one.  It feels good to finish.  As soon as I write those words the little voices inside my head start ripping me to pieces.  “But you didn’t always follow directions.” “Most of your writing is crap.” “But it took you too long.”  “No one will ever like what you made.” The voices would go on and on if I let them.  They would also debilitate me if I listened.

The thing is, if I waited for perfection I would never finish anything.  That is part of what makes everything I produce from a cake, to a knitted sock, to a piece of writing so frustrating.  None of them are perfect, ever.  I just throw myself at a project with my eyes practically closed because I know if  I look at it too long or think too much about it I will never even try to get started in the first place much less finish.

So I finish a lot of things.  I just close my ears to the noise in my head, get tunnel vision, and barrel towards the finish line.  Some of what I create is decent and some is genuine drivel.  But I try.   If I waited to be perfect nothing would ever happen.  I would live in complete stasis too scared to move a muscle for fear of failure.

People frequently give me a hard time for the imperfections in my work.  I hear criticism constantly because I am sensitive to that kind of remark.  Then repeat to myself what Theodore Roosevelt said:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

It doesn’t force all the voices go away, but it makes me proud I tried.  I will continue to be perfectly imperfect, and that is good enough for me.

Some Days Are Just Magnificent

Yesterday was a kick ass kind of day, in a good way.  I spent most of the day selling wedding cakes at a big bridal fair event at one of the local venues.  I stood next too dummy cakes (don’t worry they are used to being called that name) from the bakery I work at and fed brides cupcakes all day.

It turns out if you are yielding cupcakes everyone is super nice to you.  People come out of the woodwork and strike up a conversation.  I like to think it is because of my enchanting personality, but I am afraid they were more attracted to the cupcakes than my charming conversation.

I also learned bridal fairs have their own set of perks.  Turns out if you make friends with the other vendors they feed you their delicacies and give you flowers.

flowers

I didn’t even have flowers as nice as these at my own wedding.  The florist just gives them to you in exchange for a few cupcakes.  Holy shit ya’ll cupcake currency is the new bit coin, stronger than the dollar and yummier too!

I already felt like a freaking queen, and the night was not even over yet.  When I got home my sweet husband decided that we should celebrate that I am not cranky because I have to go to the first day of school tomorrow.  So we hit the town to stay up late and do grown up things.

First we went to a restaurant serving margaritas that will knock you on your ass.  Ask me how I know.  We ate ourselves stupid and laughed at each other’s stories.  Still buzzed, Ryan took me to a Sausage Party.

movie

I’d say not to worry that it wasn’t an X rated sausage party, but it was still pretty raunchy.  I’ve never laughed so much at anthropomorphic sausages in my life.  I really think Seth Rogan and friends sat around a table baked as shit and said, “Hey what if we make Toy Story but with food, drugs, and a fuck-ton of violence.”  Then someone else must have chimed in and been like, “Yeah, as long as we can have a five minute food orgy scene in it too.”  Then I am pretty sure them must have all passed out from the drugs.

Ryan and I got home nice and late and neither of us cared.  Dear god I love not being a teacher!

Ode to School Days

In honor of the beginning of school, I thought I would tell al tale of mystery and wonder from my old teaching days.  Enjoy:

I have a little bit of a problem with food.  That is a mammoth understatement, but hey let’s pretend it is little.  Anyway, my first year teaching I found to be incredibly stressful.  Having 20 kids being all needy and talking at you all day is exhausting.  They never leave you alone, and in addition you are supposed to actually teach them something!

I soon found myself drained of energy and generally grumpy all the time.  So I self medicated with chocolate, mostly, but I also had my way with a bunch of other food that was crappy for me as well.  During school hours though, Hershey’s Kisses were my drug of choice.

This was all well and good in the sense that it got me through the day.  The kids would irritate me, I would go over and toss down a few chocolatey bites, and the day went on.  It didn’t take long for it to catch up with me.  I soon found that much of my clothing was rather uncomfortably tight, and my ass seemed to not want to fit into any of my pants.

The problem was compounded because I was a teacher, and I wasn’t exactly raking it in money wise.  Between student loans, supporting my chocolate habit, and insisting on having cable television, there wasn’t much money to spare.  So I continued to hold my breath and mash myself into those pants figuring that someday I would replace them.  That day was just not today.

And then it happened.  One of those little kids had a problem and I lumbered over to help.  Seven year olds are vertically challenged, so I had to squat down to help the kid out.  And ploof!  I blew out the rear end of my pants completely.  There was no covering this up, my ass had made a dash for freedom from the constraints of that all too tight fabric prison.

Shame overwhelmed me.  Then I quickly moved on the blame.  If those damn chocolates hadn’t jumped into my mouth I would not have the air conditioned butt from which I was currently suffering.  I slowly inched my way tail first into the hall to get the teacher next door.  We quickly ass-essed the situation and decided she would watch both classes while I went to try to sew up my pants.

That is how I found myself sitting alone in the locked principal’s office with no pants on.  It is truly humiliating to sit in your Fruit of the Looms while frantically stitching up your pants with your emergency sewing kit, stolen from some random Vegas hotel when you turned 21.  I stitched like a mad woman until I had created something of a meandering, lumpy seam running up the back of my pants.  Now they were even tighter, but I determinedly shoved my plump butt into them.

I sucked it up, literally and figuratively the rest of the day.  And yes, as soon as school let out I found my way to the nearest discount store to buy some bigger pants.

Danger Zone

I shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen.  I just shouldn’t, which totally sucks because I also work part time in a bakery.  You can see the conflict here.  Lately it seems I am a glutton for accidents in addition to food.

Yesterday I decided I wasn’t lazy and I was going to cook up one hell of a delicious dinner of grilled beef kababs for my man.  (Really it was mostly just for me, but it sounds way better if I say it was for my husband.)

Anyway I hauled myself to the store in the rain and bought a bunch of fancy groceries.  When I got home once I got everything put away I made a lovely marinade, or mari-nod depending on how stuck up you are.

Everything was going swimmingly until it was time to get the little cubes of meaty goodness onto the skewers.  Dear god I was impaled!  Multiple times!  Evidently, those slippery little suckers did not want to have a bamboo stick plowed through their jiggly bits.

You would think after the first time I shoved that skewer straight into my fleshy fingers I would have learned my lesson.  I however was much to stubborn and hungry to give up.  I AM NOT A QUITTER!

By the time we sat down to eat my fingers were a splintered mess of puncture wounds.  But damn those were some delectable kababs.  I wish I could show you a picture, but I kind of have a one track mind when it comes to food, and I never slow down enough to photograph it before I start shoving it in my pie hole.

Don’t Be Jealous

This was truly just a fun filled weekend.  What can I say.  I watched Ryan play more Halo, until we looked at his gamer stats and he pointed out the he has been playing the game for 23 days.  Not hours, DAYS!!!  That is when I got up and threw the controller at him while screaming, “I want a divorce!”  Not really, but I may have been thinking that I am clearly the best wife in the whole wide world and I deserve a giant “Kobe Bryant cheating on his wife” sized diamond.  I will settle for some foot rubs though.  Like I say, I am clearly the best wife ever.  Also there may be an ulterior motive as I don’t want him to divorce me when he someday finds all the yarn I have stashed away all over this house.  That is another story though.

Anyway, after that incident I was doing a little housekeeping.  Little being the operative word.  When I discovered one of my plants is randy.  At first glance it looks like just a happy little plant trying to survive with the lack of care it receives from me:

plant

Until you enhance:

plant penises

Ah, yes, there you see it.  A tiny little garden of mushroom penises.  I have grown my own personal penis garden!!!  That’s right bitches, I clearly have an erect thumb!  I can’t wait to see how big they are going to get…for science of course.

What’s the Deal

Can we talk about washi tape?

whasi-tape

For the longest time I thought it was something that you were supposed to use with your laundry.  Evidently it is in fact a crafting product of sorts.  People are bonkers for these flashy little rolls of colorful patterns and I just don’t understand.  It is everywhere I look on the intertubes.

It’s masking tape!  It doesn’t really do a great job actually sticking to anything.  God forbid you try to use it to stealthily repair something your broke.  You can see that shit from space.

Supposedly there are all sorts of crafts you can do with the junk.  Everything I have seen looks like you tore a piece off and used it to slap a photo on a scrapbook page with jaggedy edged tape.  (Jaggedy is totally a word not matter what spell check tries to tell me.)  That is just not pretty, and besides I just don’t have time in my life to go through my tape drawer filled with hundreds of rolls of cutesie designs to select the perfect one to adhere my concert ticket to my dream board.

I don’t understand.  How is this tape a thing?  I am clearly missing something.