90

Jamie has become a pretty good card-giver as of late. His ovulation kudos in kitten form was really great, but he bested himself with this birthday gem.

The card starts:

"The candles say you're ninety..." 

Then Jamie added

"BS you didn't put 90 candles on something." 

Then he writes:

"Really American Greeting? You make a card for a 90 year old... 90 YEARS! And you some how mess it up by gluing the wrong side down. They will already have a hard enough time reading the print let alone your disaster pasting skills that could have been successfully done by any preschooler.

Anyway babe, I love you and maybe someday I can actually give you a "90" birthday card. It will probably be done on your 88th b-day since by that age I'm sure I'll lose a little of my counting skills. And I can pretty much guarantee there won't be much writing on it. Probably just some kind of futuristic e-card that you'll read from your super fancy Google/Apple glasses.

Remember when you were a kid and when you created a greeting card you would always sign the back of it with a "made by Sam" or if you were like me you would just put a crown and write "Hallmark".

I should have bought a Hallmark card. Why does Canada still pay more than the US?! The CA dollar is totally worth more!"

I just thought I'd share.

Babyless Baby Panic

Blooming Bath!

I may or may not have just Googled "bathing a newborn."

Okay, I definitely just Googled "bathing a newborn."

Here I am, flipping through some of my blogroll when I find myself catching up with Matt and Kara, and by "catching up with", I mean lurking around, living vicariously through their recent posts about their new baby. I got halfway through their baby's 2 week update when I felt a quick, momentary zap of panic.

Holy crap, how do I bathe a baby? How am I going to bathe my baby? I don't even have a baby, but I don't know how to bathe a baby! How warm should the water be? How warm is too warm!?

So yes, I Googled it and now feel a little more comfortable with bathing my non-existent baby. I have a feeling that you'll be seeing more posts like this as time goes on now that my Fantasy Baby is starting to feel more real and (hopefully) near. Any bets on what I'll be Googling next?

"Get Dad Out of the Closet"

When my dad died last year in March, my mom, brother and I made a point to keep our wits about us. The base of my sense of humor is sarcasm so strong that it's a wonder I even have any friends. My dad's sense of humor was was more widely accepted and always felt genuine. He loved to tell stories and make people laugh, yet wasn't averse to poking some ribs with a good round of shit-talking.

A perfect example. My dad with Jamie's dad before our wedding in 2007.
image credit: Noble Images

During his final days, while still responsive (though with a lot of effort), he challenged me to arm-wrestle. After grabbing his hand, he jerked mine around for a second then seemingly fell back asleep. A few seconds passed then he squeezed my hand and whispered, "I win." There were times like this during his last week with us that, I think, helped me stay grounded. He held on to his humor until the day he could no longer speak to us and so we felt comfortable seeing the humor in things.

We met with the funeral home to proof his obituary and sign the cremation papers. Sitting in a showroom of urns and coffins is really awkward. They gave us tissues, but I don't think we needed them. We weren't crying, or maybe we were, but it was because we were laughing so hard at the usage of the words "pulverize" and "tumble" when it came to signing off on Dad's cremation. It gave us the best/worst mental image that we couldn't help but laugh at, and we're certain that my dad would have been laughing as well.

There wasn't a funeral; we're not that formal. Dad's memorial service was the always emotional playing of Taps with the 3-volley salute followed by a reception full of eating and drinking at the VFW. None of us wanted to speak or have anyone speak. We all knew who he was and what he gave to us and we really didn't want to exhaust ourselves any more than we already had, emotionally. After a couple hours at the VFW, we continued on into the evening back at my parents' house to fully celebrate my dad's life with more PBR and peach schnapps (two of his drinking staples) than you could shake a stick at. We partied in The Bar, a place rich in drunken family history. A place with a real bar bar, and also a workbench. A place for drinking and fixing things.

An example of my ass-hattery and the bar workbench in 2009.

The bar half of The Bar. Yes, it's like a full-on bar, man, in 2010.

Ohio in early March is gross. There may or may not still be snow, there will be rain, the ground is always soggy. We decided to stow the ashes and spread them later in the year during warmer months. I returned to Ohio the following August, "I'll get Dad out of the closet." Dad had spent the last five months on the top shelf of Mom's bedroom closet. Pulverized and tumbled, he was still heavy.

We spread Dad with an old measuring cup and a plastic spoon. (Like I said, we're not formal.) First was the large burn pile that was to be burned the following evening.

Next, we put him in the pond, where after more than half a century, he finally learned to swim.

Then, it was into The Bar where we put him in the brass foot bar as well as in his seat behind the bar.

(I like to tell people who sit there not to fart on my dad.)

We added a little to his green house (which now lives at my cousin's place) then finally put the rest of him beneath a new tree we planted.

Did I mention that we poured beer and peach schnapps everywhere (outside) that we put him?

Pouring "Papa's Peachka"

Okay, we didn't pour all of it!

My mom had spent the spring and summer cleaning out my dad's old junk. He had an I Might Need This mentality when it came to stuff, and it showed in his cabinets and boxes full of miscellaneous things. Being that she has her own separate workshop off the front of the garage, my mom was set on transforming our half bar/half workbench into one cohesive partying space. She was secretive about it, but then again, my being across the country made it difficult for me to spy on her progress.

The night after we spread Dad's ashes was The Grand Re-Opening of Darrell's Bar. The new name (Darrell's Bar replacing The Bar) came with the new look, yet wasn't a purposeful change. We all just started referring to it as such and was natural in transition. It was the beginning of a new era and there would have been no better way to kick it off than with a big party.

Where The Bar had tools on the walls and stuff on the workbench, Darrell's Bar had pennants, signs, and photos on the walls. The workbench was now a clean surface with photos on display under a clear coat of people from parties-past. Mom created added seating space with a counter top and vintage bar stools on the previously full-of-junk third wall as well as finding a cool booth for the center of the room.

This new-old space is a place to both carry on and move on without my dad. "To Darrell!" can likely be heard echoing through the neighborhood when we have a party, and if my dad were around to experience the nearly-constant toasting, he'd relish in it. He was just that kind of guy, so we humor him with toasts, stories and remember-whens.

Remember when Dad took a shot out of a beer mug that had a bicycle bell on it?

 Dad isn't physically with us, but when we're in Darrell's Bar, there's no escaping him.

If You Really Knew Me

This has been swirling through the blogging community lately, and I thought Hey, why not? so let's get to it. Granted, most of you who read this probably already know most of what I'm going to say, but let's pretend I have a whole community of mystery readers that don't already know me. But I think I may do this differently and dial back the DeLorean to high school, then maybe in the future (heh) I'll do another, more recent "If you really knew me" post. Ready? Go.

If you really knew me in high school, you'd know:

• that I got my first tattoo when I was 16, the summer before my senior year.
• that I was pretty butch in high school! Yikes. No regrets!
• that I did a lot of my shopping either in the thrift stores or the boys shorts sections at the mall stores.

Saxophone threats.

• that I was active in theater, marching band, concert/symphonic band, choir and show choir. JAZZ HANDS!
• that hair dye was my inanimate best friend. Green hair for the choir Christmas concert? Sho'nuff.
• that I got in trouble with our principal for my homecoming dress because it showed my midriff. 
• that I was a terrible student in most of my Gen Ed classes. The only time I did well was if I was actually interested in what we were working on. 
• that I only took French class because they went on trips to Canada and France and Spanish class went nowhere. 

This was freshman day at Band Camp. Band Camp is nothing like you think it is. I'm wearing terrible shorts.

• that I played the mellophone in marching and pep band. It was so fun.
• that I played the french horn for concert and symphonic band, and it was so hard. I was not fantastic on the french horn.
• that my 1994 Ford Aspire was a hatchback named Margaret, but had 4 doors, not two, and had a broken gas gauge. 

My hair looks like an egg. Why did I think it looked so cool?

• that my freshman homecoming dance was really awkward, if you couldn't tell from the photo. 
• that my freshman homecoming date chewed gum in my ear and must've had a banana in his pocket when we danced.

• that during our Bush/Gore mock election, I made a shirt for the campaign and spelled Lieberman wrong. Sharpies don't have spell-check.
• that I worked at a party venue with a handful of friends getting paid under the table for various jobs such as coat check, dishwasher, server, busser, soup-to-lap depositor. Oops. That was on my first night. 
• that I later worked at Domino's Pizza with a couple friends, which sucked and was fun. 
• that half of my friends were from our rival high school in the town next to us. The aforementioned homecoming date and my senior prom date were both from that school.
• that my homecoming date was my only boyfriend in high school, and he wasn't even really a boyfriend. 
• that I broke up with said "boyfriend" via a letter in the mail. YES. 
• that I looked into studying theater in Chicago after graduation, but then decided against it.

I made some pretty spectacular memories in high school. I'd never want to be a teenager again, but I do miss the times when the most important thing in my life were my friends and what we were going to do after school or the upcoming weekend. I wish I could think of more fun facts from back in the day, but my time machine is spent. 

Long Winded Fitness Situation

"Don't buy into the bullshit. F*ck the body hating, pop culture assholes. You're beautiful!!!"

I think the above photo is really important. It's important to love yourself and not fall into a need to have a "perfect" body. It's also important to love yourself and not fall into the habit of neglecting your body. This was where my first somewhat failure was.

When I was in high school, I was very much into making sure I was different than the assholes in school. I didn't care what others expected of me and I didn't care if they liked me or not. I didn't care to look like them, either. I may have even gone so far as to scribble on a white shirt, in sharpie, "Be who you are, not what they want you to be." If it were 1985, I would have been Allison Reynolds in The Breakfast Club, minus the dandruff and headband makeover.

Homecoming 2000/Prom 2001 - (Don't you love Hannah's Saloon Girl prom getup?)

With this Screw-Off, I'm Awesome attitude came an awesome acceptance of my body. The year following graduation, I packed on the Freshman 15 without even going off to college but I didn't care. Life was really good that year. I was having a great time and was constantly surrounded by like-minded friends. I was at my biggest, a size 14, when I moved to California ten years ago in August of 2002. With the stresses of moving across the country and being mostly on my own, I began to lose weight accidentally.

June 2005

By the time I took this photo, I was down to 132 pounds and was about a size 6 or 8, which was the thinnest I've ever been. Still, during that time, I hadn't done anything to lose the weight on purpose. I had been with Jamie for about two and a half years, and our diet consisted largely of fast food. I was an anomaly.

When Jamie graduated from college and we moved into our apartment in 2006, I was still the same size, but not for long. With our own place comes our own kitchen. With our own kitchen comes baking! I baked. I love to bake. I baked a lot and we still ate fast food. By 2009, I was back up to about 164 pounds and wearing a size 12. I was about the size that I was when I moved to California in 2002, except this time, I wasn't proud of it. I didn't feel good about myself. I felt sluggish.

On New Year's Day of 2010, I ate my last deliciously high in caloric content breakfast at The Original Pancake House with Jamie and our friends Jon and Amanda (who we miss since they moved away!). On January 2nd, I began my journey in fitness and health. I tracked my calories, and went 7 weeks without a day off from the gym. I lost 20 pounds in three months and felt great.

I traveled to Ohio over Easter that year. When I returned, I never returned to the gym. I tried, but I had lost that motivation. I, however, had stuck pretty well to my more healthy eating habits and managed to only put on 5 pounds before heading to Cabo for Pat and Sara's wedding in February of 2011. Unfortunately, even with getting sick in Cabo, I still ate and drank enough to put on another 5 pounds (likely mostly bloating from all the free booze.)

When we returned from Cabo is when we found out that my dad was in his final weeks. I flew to Ohio to be with him and my family. While there, my mom and I nourished ourselves with sugar wafer cookies and lattes. I put on 10 more pounds and was back to where I started twice before.

So here I am now, making progress that feels really good. I'm feeling good about myself again and it has nothing to do with getting skinnier, or getting f*ck-you-fatter. Just because I'm changing my body, doesn't mean I hate it. It means I love it enough to want to take care of it and keep it healthy and functional. I can't predict the future, though, so chances are I may end up back at the beginning again, especially with pregnancy hopefully being in my future. But I know what to do to take care of myself and I know what it takes to make me feel good in my body, and that's what I'm sticking to and that's what's working.

So here. Numbers.


June 7, 2012

• Weight - 163 (+20)
• Bust - 40"
• Waist - 34" (+4)
• Belly - 40.5" 
• Hips/Butt - 43.5" (+3.25)
• Thigh - 25.5" (+2)
• Knee - 16.5"
• Calf - 14.25"
• Arm - 13" (+1.75)

August 2, 2012

• Weight - 156 (-2, -7)
• Bust - 38" (-0.5, -2)
• Waist - 32" (0, -2)
• Belly - 40" (0, -0.5) 
• Hips/Butt - 41.75" (-0.25, -1.75)
• Thigh - 24" (-0.25, -1.5)
• Knee - 15.25" (-0.25, -1.25)
• Calf - 13.75" (-0.25, -0.5)
• Arm - 12.5" (0, -0.5)

August 9, 2012

• Weight - 152.5 (-3.5, -10.5)
• Bust - 37.75" (-0.25, -2.25)
• Waist - 31.25" (-0.75, -2.75)
• Belly - 39.25" (-0.75, -1.25) 
• Hips/Butt - 41.5" (-0.25, -2)
• Thigh - 24" (-0.25, -1.5)
• Knee - 15.25" (-0.25, -1.25)
• Calf - 13.75" (-0.25, -0.5)
• Arm - 12.25" (-0.25, -0.75)

I did really well this week! I could tell even before I took any numbers. This was the first week that I was actually feeling thinner and lighter. Look! I surpassed 10 pounds lost and am now at a total loss of 12.25 inches! Let me tell you, it was so nice to finally see a change in my belly and waist measurement... and at three-quarters of a inch each, a pretty significant change.

Jeah!

On Anxiety and Panic

"Pull!"

Having just shot, I took my turn launching the targets. The shooting stations were constructed of wood with lattice on the top and two sides that at some point had been painted green.

"Pull!"

I pressed the button. As I stood there, I looked more closely at the upright box I was standing in. In the top corners I noticed thick spider webs. I immediately look to the bottom corners to find the same.

"Pull!"

I looked quickly to find that the lattice surrounding me was obviously some type of arachnid preservation. My heart pounded and my lungs felt shallow.

"Pull!"

My shoulders tensed as I looked around and forced a deep breath. Upon guarded inspection in fear of what I was going to see if I looked too carefully, I found nothing in the webs.

"Pull!"

Mostly relaxed, I launched the final targets and stepped out of the station. What I felt in there could have escalated into a panic attack, but I managed to keep my wits about me and think realistically. My fear of spiders is irrational and because I know so, I was able to keep my panic in check. This isn't always the case, however. Sometimes panic comes without an obvious stressor, and when that happens, it's difficult to manage.


"Sorry for the heat," my director informed us, "The air conditioner wouldn't come on." 


The normally cool theater was hot and stuffy for rehearsal, but I thought nothing of it. If I can take an hour spin class without air conditioning, I can survive rehearsal in the heat. We began Act II and a few pages in, I was beginning my song. I had just run the song a few times at home earlier in the day and was feeling confident and ready to knock it out. 


It didn't start out well, but I was going to shake it off for the next verse. When I move into the second verse, I find that I'm having trouble pushing it out. 


"I'm sorry, I'm out of breath," I panted as the piano continued.
"That's okay, it's hot. Just keep going," my director, well, directed.

I make my cross to continue, but only manage to push out half of the words. I gasp and put my hands on my knees. "I can't breathe," I gasp a few times and sit on the edge of the low stage, my chest feeling like it was wrapped 100 times with Ace bandaging, "I'm panicking."

Before grabbing some water and taking it with me outside for some air, I was met with reassuring gestures of  "You're doing great, don't panic!" but it wasn't that. This panic attack was seemingly out of the blue and because I didn't know what was causing it, I couldn't slow it down. It's bad enough to buckle under pressure, but halting rehearsal because I had a panic attack in the middle of my song is just embarrassing.

It took a couple years before Jamie was really understanding of how my panic and anxiety works, so dealing with it in front of people who don't know about it makes me feel weak. It doesn't help the situation when following my musical director saying "Take as much time as you need," a cast mate said, under her breath to him, "Easy for you to say. You don't have kids to go home to."

After what was probably still less than five minutes, I pushed myself to go on. I wasn't ready, but I can't bring waste everyone's time because of something so seemingly silly. Continuing the scene while trying to regulate my breathing and get my heart to stop racing was difficult, but within a half hour I was feeling better.

Anxiety and panic attacks are tricky to manage. When my anxiety first began to have an effect on my life 5 or 6 years ago, I went on medication. It was a low dose of Celexa that proved effective in eliminating my work and driving anxieties, but I yawned constantly. When I say "constantly", I'm not exaggerating. So while I felt better, my doctor advised me that once I got to a place where I was feeling normal, I could ween myself off of the pills. I did just that after about 4 or 5 months, and since then have had less general anxiety. (However, this can also be attributed to changes in workplace since then.)

Where I used to have more general anxiety, lately I've had more pop-up panic attacks, both explained and unexplained. My surprise panic at rehearsal has me considering a return to medication, but hopefully just for short term management. As described above at the shooting range, there are a lot of situations where I can control my own anxiety and keep panic attacks at bay, but that might not be good enough right now. As much as I'd like to stay off medication, it might be necessary in order to keep my situation from affecting others as it did that night at rehearsal.

Anxiety and panic are such overwhelming sensations that when left unmanaged can, over time, build and grow to where it will weigh over everything in life. If I don't keep my anxiety under control, I'll lose control over everything else in my life and that is unacceptable. Though, even on medication, it's likely that I still won't enjoy standing in a box full of spider webs. I'll just be able to breathe comfortably while doing it.

Things I've Learned: From My Brother

I have a habit of saying that my brother Jason was seven years older than me. He still is seven years older than me, and unless something epic happens within the space-time continuum and two alternate universes which take place in different, yet not so far apart years converge, he will always be seven years older than me.

Being that he was so much older than me, we weren't the best of friends when I was young, but that didn't mean we didn't spend any quality time together. I learned a lot from my big brother during my time as the annoying little sister.

Things I've Learned From My Brother:

"If you can't play with the big dogs, get off of the porch."
When your brother (who is twice your age at the time) says "Let me teach you how to wrestle," you should probably decline. It almost always ends up with someone getting hurt. Of all the times that someone was hurt, it was me. As I whined or cried, Jason would inevitably tell me, every time, "Hey, if you can't play with the big dogs, get off the porch."

A reenactment of my childhood.

"Ain't nobody home but the Fat Boys."
Teenagers sleep a lot and younger siblings are often sent to wake them up. There were a number of times that I disturbed Jason mid-dream just enough that he'd sleep-talk. (We're a family of sleep-talkers, so this happened a lot.)  From Jason, I learned that you can fix anything with a hammer, screwdriver, wrench and a sandwich, and also that the Fat Boys were the only ones home.

Hold on and don't look at the speedometer. 
If there's one thing my brother likes, it's to go fast. If there's a second thing my brother likes, it's to take someone with him and go fast. If there's a third thing my brother likes, it's to take someone with him who is afraid to go fast and go fast. I always agree to go and I'm not really sure why.

This is what I look like when I go fast.

"He's sitting on the stairs, crying."
When my tween-aged brother's friend rode to our house on his bicycle and asked what Jason was doing, I quickly learned to not be so specific.

Late 80's/Early 90s Fashion
I learned most of my fashion expertise as a child from my mom, but there were two things I learned from Jason: how to french-cuff my jeans and how he used gel and coming his hair in the wrong direction to spike his hair.

Mulletous Jason, my dad wearing dress shoes at a picnic and my fabulous mother. 

And miscellaneous little things:

He taught me how to cross my eyes.

And how to share? Okay, maybe not.

He taught me how to photobomb in front of the subject.

He taught me how to play with the big dogs, for realz.

And how to use both background curtains in the mall photo booth. (This was a big deal.)

He taught me how to coordinate. (image credit: Noble Images)

Over the years I've learned a lot from my brothers. More recently, that while the distance and the time between visits can be difficult, I've learned that it has yet to hurt our relationship.

I love you, man, and I'm so glad that you finally weigh more than me are my big brother.

Eight Legs and Lemon Pledge: A True Story

I received an email the other day from Jamie's mom, Chris. (Hi!) She's very familiar with my fear of spiders and can often relate, so she decided to write me and share her adventure of dealing with a spider in the house when no one was around to do it for her. With her permission, I thought I'd share it here with everyone.

Hi Sammy,

I know you'll get what I'm talking about. I ran into our downstairs half bath to use it this morning. I didn't turn on the light and had just sat down when I noticed something black on the floor not far from my feet. It was about the size of a dime, but I didn't have enough light to actually see it well. I decided not to take my eyes off the thing. I was praying that it wouldn't move...and for a minute or so it didn't. Then it did and it was crawling over to the wall. I got up quickly and flipped on the light switch and there it was - - a very black and hairy spider.

I had to think fast. I couldn't yell for Tom because he was out walking the dog. I could never smush it with a tissue or even tissues because it would probably make that popping sound that they all make when their bodies are crushed. Ugh! I couldn't even just flick off the light and walk away because I knew I'd never be able to use that bathroom again unless we hunted it down and I actually saw that the creature had been "made toast."

So, I quietly opened the cabinet under the sink and considered my options. I was going to grab a container of toilet bowl cleaner and whack him, but I knew that I'd have to clean his crushed spider body off the bottle before I could use it again, and that grossed me out. I grabbed a bottle of carpet cleaner and really sprayed him good. The little sucker looked like he'd just bought the farm, but then he started to crawl again and this time right for me. So I grabbed the next bottle I could find...the lemon Pledge that moisturizes dry furniture. I soaked him in it and he must have really been dry because he stopped in his tracks and curled his legs up under his body. I quickly grabbed 4 tissues and wrapped them over each other to make about 12 layers. Then I leaned over and in one fast and smooth motion swept him up (as well as several inches of foamy carpet cleaner and lemony furniture polish)and threw his lifeless body into the toilet with one hand as I flushed with the other.

I cannot tell you how proud I was to have taken care of this monster all by myself, even though Tom's first words when he came back into the house were "What the heck is that smell coming from the bathroom?" I had to remind him that what he smelled coming from the bathroom this morning was far more fragrant than it is on most mornings. (;

love you,
Chris

I had such a laugh reading this as I could imagine just how she felt when she first saw the spot and suspected what it was. I could also relate to just about everything else in this story; I've been known to use hairspray in my defense against the eight-leggers just to prevent having to clean up a smush.

I know some people are advocates of these guys and will either leave them be, or take them outside, but I just can't. If I know he's in there, I'm thinking about it... constantly. Then if he's gone, I'm really concerned with where he might be or where he's going to turn up next. It's too much!

So thank you, dear mother-in-law, for sharing your story. I certainly can relate and I'm sure plenty of other folks can, too.

Dude, May? Yikes.

The first half of the year is two-thirds over, you guys. 


There seems to be a few times a year when we realize what month it is and that makes us freak out on a minimal level about the time that has passed.

Can you believe it's already May?!

I feel like this has a lot to do with Life Algebra; there has to be a formula that explains why time moves faster than most of our ambitions.

Where did this year go, so far? Pretty soon, it's going to be Christmas already!


On some days, I realize what year it is and really freak myself out. Aside from realizing, on occasion, that I am a full-on grown-up*, it also dawns on me that WHOA-- we live in the future, man. I mean, a good amount of people carry around tiny touch screen computers on which we can (least importantly) make calls, scour the internet, and (most importantly) play games. What could Zach Morris' phone do? *scoff* 


We are living more than a decade into the 2000s and that's weird when I look at it from my childhood; when I look at it from when I was in elementary school, doing the math and finding out that I would graduate in 2001. That sounded so space-tastic! It was The Future. There was definitely going to be some Grade-A Jetson Shit happening in 2001.


What kind of car would I drive when I turned 16 in 2000? 

That would be a 1994 Ford Aspire, Young Self. Not only will it have a hatch-back, but it will also have 4 doors. (Space-age, indeed!) Mom's going to buy it new in a few years and drive approximately one million miles in it before giving it to you with a broken gas gauge. Yes, you will run out of gas. More than once. You'll get used to it and it will be okay because you'll get to cart 6 or 7 people in your five-seater, and it will be so fun.

Oh my lawd, we're not even in the first decade of the 2000s anymore!


Isn't that just weird? I have to say, I'm stoked on where I am in life. Of course there are the Wish I Had's and the Why Didn't I's, but everything is just so good right now that I am truly looking forward to making more progress in life and in the rest of this year.

This was written in participation with Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write

---

*While yes, I've been a technical adult for years, I think that once you reach your late-twenties, you've become a grown-up. It's basically when you realize you've become "too old" for a lot of things, which can be good and bad.

Jolt! Rumble, Rumble... Jolt!

"Ooh, an earthquake!" I tend to turn into Captain Obvious when the earth moves noticeably below us. 


They don't really scare me. Like a good storm from back home, the mild ones just get my blood pumping and the adrenaline running. I'm sure I'm not alone; if it were possible, there'd definitely be some type of adventure for science show. I assume it'd be titled something like Earthquake Excursions. (It would most definitely involve some type of alliteration.)

I was at work when the earth, well, quaked below us yesterday. It both began and ended with a significant jolt, only separated by a few seconds of rumbling and grumbling. The shaking ended after a few seconds and my coworkers and I promptly wasted the next 15 minutes looking it up on the internet and discussing our feelings about earthquakes in general.

Alexa's eyeballs hurt from the excitement. My eyeballs were fine.

It turns out that this 3.9 was centered less than 10 miles from where we were, which is out of the ordinary, so there's that. (Turns out, I don't really have an opinion on that.)

While this was the closest earthquake I have felt, it wasn't the most intense. Well, the jolts in this one were pretty intense, but it was over fairly quickly. Four or five year ago, while working from home, a wave of an earthquake rolled through. It wasn't strong enough to knock anything down, but what made it significant was how long it kept rumbling.

I had a chat window open with Jamie.

OMG earthquake!
Whoa, it's still going!
STILL SHAKING!
OMG the blinds are swinging.
I think my desk chair is rolling around.
Still shaking!


As if he wasn't aware that we were having an earthquake. Jamie isn't one to let some ground-shaking distract him. I remember the first earthquake I experienced with him was one morning when we were still in bed.


Shake shake. "Babe, I think we're having an earthquake."

"Yeah, I was just going to try and sleep through it..."

It turns out that during this one long earthquake, while I was typing the obvious to him, he was on the phone with our HOA. They had been bugging us to wash the egg off the front of our house, while he was trying to get them to do it, since it had been there when we moved in. This could be a whole new story in itself, but anyway... In the middle of his rant to this HOA woman, the earthquake starts. He keeps ranting, but the lady flips out, "Oh my God we're having an earthquake! I've gotta go!"

The rumbling has stopped, but the blinds are still swinging when he finally responds to my chat,

The HOA lady just hung up on me!


I've lived in Southern California for nearly ten years (WHAT. Already?) and have yet to experience a quake that'll (pun alert pun alert) shake me, and I am happy with that. While they do excite me in the same way a good thunderstorm did, I'm not looking for bigger and better. I'm definitely fine with a little jolt, rumble rumble, jolt.

This was written in participation with Extraordinary Ordinary for Just Write.

Irrational

SnorgTees.com, bro.

My ma sent me an altered version of the above image that had been swirling through Facebook. The uploader had added, (explicit lyric warning) "Fuck spiders." I thought that added a certain (pardon my French) Je ne sais quoi and it made me laugh.

These arachnids hold power over me due to their proximity to either myself or things that I need. Spider on the wall in the stairs? Not going downstairs. Spider by the toilet? I can hold it. Spider in my car? I guess don't really need to go anywhere today.

This irrational fear of spiders is a common phobia. While not particularly crippling, it does affect my behavior and thought process. Who am I kidding? If one surprises me, I turn into the 50s housewife from Looney Toons that hops on a chair and makes funny noises when she sees a rodent in her kitchen. It takes me a good while to shake off those heebie jeebies.

My eight-legged tormentors even haunt my dreams. I'm serious, and if you ask Jamie about it, he's likely to tell you all about it. Why would he rant on about it? Because I react in my sleep to a typical scenario. This scenario always takes place in bed with a large, creepy spider. It either drops down from the ceiling or is crawling on the blanket, and I physically react to this by yelling, gasping, panicking, jumping out of bed, kicking the blankets, and other things along those lines. While reacting, I slowly wake up and things start making sense and I realize I was just dreaming and I go back to sleep, though not after having woken Jamie.

When this first happened, way back when we lived in Long Beach before we were married, Jamie got out of bed, turned on a light and looked around for this spider I had seen. Now he just sighs audibly and rolls over. I don't blame him. It's getting old. I would love for it to stop, too.

I'm not sure where this phobia came from. Both my mom and my dad were my spider killers and never treated them in any way that would suggest I be frightened of them. When we finally have kids, I'm going to have to put on my strong face and hope for fearless children to be my spider killers. "Oh, that's just a harmless li'l spider! He's super scared of you, so you shouldn't be scared of him! Show me how brave you are and get him out of here for Mommy!" That's what kids are for, right?

Here's to being irrational and letting it affect your life! Wait... no. Here's to overcoming your fears! WOW. No. I am way too scared of spiders to do anything involved with overcoming my fear of them. So, here's to irrational fears and learning to live with them! Yes.