I Love Not Camping

Posted on May 23, 2013 | 17 Comments

I originally published this a couple of years ago, but seeing as it’s almost “camping season” and no one’s on the Internet this weekend, it’s worth a rerun. Plus, there’s an announcement at the bottom. 

Spring has sprung, which means many people will be packing up to go camping in the coming weeks. I will not be one of them, as I do not camp.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the outdoors and worship the sun and nature. And while I’m not high-maintenance, I don’t find appeal in sleeping on the ground in a tent pretending I’m homeless.

But despite the tent aversion, I do have a bit of camping experience.

When I was younger we had a trailer up north that we spent a good deal of time at in the summer. It was a decent sized rig with a shower, small kitchen, deck, etc., but it was still a trailer.

I fished, shot my bow and arrow (not at anything living, at least not on purpose,) tore around on the 4-wheeler and hit the lake with the inflatable alligator before coming back to nighttime campfires, Cribbage games and attempts to attract bats by throwing random crap up in the air by the park lights.

Such a princess.

I was young, and other than the fact that I rolled out of the top bunk of triple bunk beds—a bed rail was quickly installed—I had no real complaints. Now that I’m older and debatably wiser, I would have many complaints, which is why I don’t even attempt to pretend to want to camp.

Why someone would want to leave indoor plumbing and decent food and increase the likelihood of contracting mosquito malaria, dirt-covered food and being attacked by a baby deer in the woods is beyond me.*

*Of course, to each their own (disclaimer so campers don’t get pissed, although if they’re camping, they shouldn’t have access to Wi-Fi.)

But for those who enjoy camping and would like to recreate this experience at home, I have a few suggestions:

  • Hang your clothes over a wood fire to get that signature smell, the one that will hopefully cover up the other signature smell of musty dampness.
  • While you’re over the fire, singe your eyelashes and grab a hot poker to recreate the experience of starting the fire and attempting to roast anything with a metal stick.
  • Scald the skin on the roof of your mouth in an attempt to eat whatever it is you were trying to roast that didn’t fall into the flame.
  • Hover—a lot—and get used to swatting bugs with one hand while wiping with the other. This takes skill, which is why you will most likely find yourself pissing on your own leg (hey, you wanted to go camping.)
  • Pour sand directly into the bottom of your bathing suit and any exposed crack or opening in your body. If a lake is nearby, also include seaweed.
  • If you feel like getting fancy, spray yourself with a water bottle to recreate the (lack of) water pressure trailer showers provide. Forget about washing your hair (this is actually a positive in my book.)
  • Plant families of the loudest bugs on the planet in your backyard directly next to your window. If available, add in the mating calls of mystery creatures you’re sure are rabid and hunting you down.
  • Roll your meals in damp dirt.
  • Roll your clothes in damp dirt.
  • Roll yourself in damp dirt.

So for those of you starting your camping season soon, may the force be with you. I plan on working in the yard a bit, reading and enjoying the luxury of warm showers, good food I didn’t have to catch and a few good baseball games.

I love not camping.

Announcement time:

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So I wrote another book.

You should probably want to buy it, and the good news is you can! Exclamation point! Things got done sooner than I expected, so I’ll share the info next week (along with a giveaway.)

Stay tuned!

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A Natural Reaction

Posted on May 20, 2013 | 23 Comments

For every action, there is an equal and opposite overreaction, usually by me.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve realized that I’m great in situations that don’t directly involve me on a primary level. Whereas other people freak out, I remain calm and collected. For example:

Situation: Stepdad cut off part of his finger while using the snow blower a few years ago.

Others: He (understandably) came yelling into the house holding his house-of-horrors hand. Mom (who will deny this) freaked out and started running around while the two of them talked over each other and wasted precious time.

Me: Calmly called 911 and described the emergency while also getting ice ready for the “stub” (if found,) ripping up his Mensa application and Googling “How to Reattach a Fingertip for Dummies” and a recipe for a new vegan cheesecake.

Because it wasn’t my finger and wouldn’t impair my ability to eat or do something of equal importance, I was fine. But there are still those “rare” days when something will happen and on a scale of 1-10 in the crazy department, I come in at about “Lindsay Lohan.”

Situation: A summer thunderstorm.

Others: Some sit on the porch and watch the storm roll in while others go about their business in a normal fashion.

Me: OH MY GOD! We’re going to lose power and all of my food will go bad, not to mention that I’ll miss the ballgame and can’t even go on Twitter to complain that we’re going to lose power! (All of this is said while trying to fit into the Thundershirt my mom has for her 13-lb dog.)

Situation: I send an email, text, etc. or put up a blog post and don’t immediately get a reply.

Others: Probably forget that they sent/posted it and simply go on with their lives.

Me: Fail to realize that not everyone is as OCD as me, and that they might be busy with “social lives” or whatever. Instead, I assume they hate me and are creating a Voodoo doll of my likeness instead of replying to email or reading my blog (If you are creating a doll though, please embellish the boobs quite a bit. I’ll totally buy it from you.)

Situation: Notice that the Kleenex box in my bathroom actually matches the bathroom.

Others: Would never notice this in the first place.

Me: Sigh deeply, realizing that now I can never use the last Kleenex in that box because it perfectly matches the interior of the bathroom and that moment might never happen again.

Situation: A winter ice storm/blizzard.

Others: Some people enjoy the view with a cup of hot cocoa while others go about their business in a normal fashion.

Me: OH MY GOD! We’re going to lose power and I’ll freeze, not to mention that I’ll miss the hockey game and can’t even go on Twitter to complain that we’re going to lose power! (All of this is said while trying to create a blankie fort by preemptive candlelight.)

Situation: Hot gym guy says, “Are you done using this bench?”

Others: Tell hot gym guy if they’re done using that bench.

Me: Translate that to mean, “I don’t even care that right now you smell like IcyHot and have what is either avocado or a booger on your shirt. I think we should run away together somewhere warm and perfect our slow-motion “Baywatch” jog.

Situation: Hot gym guy says, “Abby, remember the restraining order?”

Others: Well, they probably stay away at least 100 yards.

Me: Translate that to mean, “I don’t even care that right now you smell like IcyHot and have what is either avocado or a booger on your shirt. I think we should run away together somewhere warm and perfect our slow-motion “Baywatch” jog.

So as you can see, I’m actually quite a rational person if you sever a limb, suffer a natural disaster a safe distance away from my house or need instruction on how to create a weather shelter cocoon out of catnip-laced blankets.

Overreact? Not this girl, my…OH MY GOD IT’S A SPIDER WHICH MEANS THERE ARE A MILLION OTHERS JUST WAITING TO EAT OFF MY FACE!!!

Ahem. Carry on.

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Those Pearly Whites

Posted on May 17, 2013 | 23 Comments

Aside from the costs involved, I don’t mind going to the dentist. In fact, at the risk of raising my weirdo quotient up a bit, I will admit I kind of even like it.

I’m very OCD with my oral hygiene and have only had one cavity in my 31 years, always getting my Polaroid picture on the“No Cavity Kid” wall and picking a cheap plastic toy out of the toy chest or stocking up on free stickers when I was younger.

As an adult this distinction is no longer special.

I don’t get my picture on a wall, but instead get the bill and a “see you in six months.” This follows an hour of poking and prodding in my mouth with sharp metal objects while asking me questions and making conversation, all the while knowing full well I am in no position to answer with their hands shoved in my mouth.

I still try.

And because I will blog about anything, here is a rundown of my last visit:

  • Even though I arrived early and had to endure 15 minutes of waiting in the lobby listening to the secretaries make witty banter about the women on “The View,” I was soon taken back to the exam room promptly on time. That was nice.
  • I was immediately offered a paraffin wax hand treatment—yes, a paraffin wax hand treatment. The hygienist took me to a small tub of heated wax, dipped my hands and then covered them with plastic and something that resembled giant oven mitts. That was nicer.
  • Arriving back in the exam room, I was given a hot neck pad to put behind my head and then immediately fitted with some sort of new space age goggles and the requisite paper bib that hasn’t changed in 50 years. (The fact that I was wearing oven mitts, a paper bib and goggles is the reason why I wouldn’t want a hot dentist. Mine is old and considerably balder each visit I see him.)
  • The prodding began, followed soon by a few polite questions that—as I mentioned above—I was in no condition to reply to. Between swallowing and opening my mouth to the precise degree of angularity requested, I somehow managed to tell her that I did floss (constantly for the past week leading up to this visit) and I would prefer mint paste and ALL THE STICKERS!!!
  • Several times throughout the cleaning she expressed her awe of my “spectacular home care,” used the words “oral,” “cavity” and “swallow” and made reference to moisture and tight spaces. This caused me to giggle, which resulted in me questioning whether I had really matured since I was 12 years old and requested the bubble gum flavor of toothpaste (and ALL THE STICKERS!!!)
  • After slipping the oven mitts, goggles and plastic bib off, I was given a new toothbrush, floss of the mint “easy-slide” variety and a water bottle.

So even though I didn’t get my picture on the wall, at least my teeth were clean and my hands were soft and supple.

Plus, she gave me a sticker.

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The Price Is Right

Posted on May 13, 2013 | 22 Comments

If you don’t get a little bit excited for Sundays because the new grocery ad and coupon books arrive in the paper, then you probably won’t relate to this post.

You see, I love Sundays for that simple fact (and because I don’t work and usually don’t wash my hair or do much of anything productive, which is why I usually don’t wash my hair. That would be productive.)

My only true ad interest is in the produce section and my “staple” items, as many of my specialty food purchases rarely go on sale. Boo hiss.  But when my “staples” go on sale, watch out.

Mad woman with a cart* coming through!

*For the record, I’m 2,456,667 for 2,456, 667 in picking the one cart that will be stuck inside another cart, forcing me to get all Jackie Chan on said carts until I admit defeat and just push both of the bastards around stuck together.

I have pride.

Anyway, seeing as I do the grocery shopping for my mom and uncle as well, I become rather familiar with the ad by about Wednesday. At that point I’m more knowledgeable about the products than store staff is and can be found counseling shoppers about how to save on their purchases.

I consider it community service.

I also clip the coupons on Sunday for them and organize them in my little coupon keeper. Every Sunday I weed out the old and add in the new, but sometimes an old one gets missed.

This old one will most likely be the one I want to use on the grocery trip one day after it expired. Seeing as this wasn’t discovered until I’m already in the checkout line, I’m forced to make a decision—try and sneak it through or throw it away? Unless I know the cashier is a badass who’ll bust me, who are we kidding? Of course I’ll try and still use it.

In fact, I should try my hand at high stakes poker because of how good I am at keeping a straight face when knowingly using an expired coupon.

I usually make sure to sandwich the expired one in between two “valid” ones, if those are also being used. In my demented way of thinking, I believe the cashier is going to think, “She’s using two good coupons, so this probably slipped in by mistake! Of course I’ll give her 50 cents off of this cereal! She’s practically a saint, for god’s sake!”

When passing over the expired offender, I also try and busy myself with the rest of my bags and coupons while she tries to scan it in.

Some don’t care and figure the machine is just being funny. Others immediately get all CSI: Coupon and check the expiration date that I forgot to “accidentally” clip off with the scissors.

Again, I assume the internal dialogue of the cashier is running along the lines of, “This coupon is expired, but she looks really busy rearranging the bags I just filled with her stuff—pulling things out to examine them before glancing back up and then rearranging the bags yet again. She needs to save $1 on two cans of chickpeas.”

Of course the situation often arises when I am busted, at which point I put on an Oscar-worthy performance of feigned ignorance about what the date is. (To be fair, I usually don’t ever know what date is, but these cashiers don’t’ read my blog and are unfamiliar with my level of neurosis.)

But I act surprised, tell her to toss it—as if she’s going to keep it for her own collection or something if I don’t—and after paying, raise my head high and push my two conjoined grocery carts out to the car.

I have pride, you know.

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Employee of the Month

Posted on May 9, 2013 | 31 Comments

Scene: Job interview at Hypothetical Honesty Office & Co.

Important Company Person: Hello! Thank you for coming in for this interview today. Your resume is quite impressive.

Applicant: Thank you for inviting me! No one is posting jobs that I’m qualified for, so my resume is a complete work of fiction that highlights my creative writing and improvisational skills. 

ICP: Indeed! Now let’s get down to business. We want someone who is willing to work hard for a small amount of money so that the higher ups can work less and make a fortune. We could hire anyone we wanted to come in and do this generic office position, but we want someone with practical skills, so I’m going to ask you a few important questions. Ready?

A: Does this involve a drug test?

ICP: No.

A: Then yes, let’s begin.

ICP: You have CEO listed on your resume. Can you explain what those duties entailed?

A: Well, CEO means “Cleaner of External Objects” to me.  And as CEO, I always replace the empty roll of paper towel in the kitchen or bathroom, as I know that’s a hard skill to master. I also place my dirty coffee cup IN the sink and then wash it instead of placing it NEXT to the sink and leaving it for an imaginary maid.

And at my last job,  I had to fix the running toilet in the office bathroom. Does that make me a hero? Not for me to say. But probably.

ICP: Impressive and noted—with a smiley face! Now it’s a proven fact that the first 10 minutes of any conference call are spent watching people try and figure out how to set up the conference call. How do you deal with a) phones and b) meetings.

A: I’m more terrified of a ringing phone than I am of a fire alarm, so I let all calls go directly to a voicemail that I never check. And any invitations to attend a webinar or meeting longer than an hour will result in me decoupaging a flask for my desk or faking my death.

ICP: Look at you, Martha Stewart with your crafts! Next question. The other day I yelled, “Don’t you know who I am?” at the printer. Apparently it does, which would be why it jammed. How would handle that scenario?

A: I would do a little karate yell while trying to unjam said copy machine. Not sure it would help, but I’m feeling pretty confident it would.

ICP: Confidence is key. We want our employees to be as assertive as the Adobe Acrobat update reminders.

A: And there was one time I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and then “Eye of the Tiger” popped into my head. Long story short, I weaponized my stapler.

ICP: Random, but impressive, as I often use music to soothe me as well. When a pen runs out, I like to sing “Circle of Life” ceremoniously before placing it gently in the trash. We live in crazy times, don’t we? Speaking of crazy, how do you deal with coworker interaction?

A: Well, my 30s have been less about “finding myself” and more about “finding ways to avoid awkward chit-chat.” So every Monday I would handle general “How was your weekend?” inquiries by making flashcards stating: “Weekend was great!” “Weather is wonderful!” “Can’t believe it’s Monday!” It would cut down on talking by 25 percent.

ICP: Brilliant! I love that idea! It would not only increase productivity and profits, but also reduce stress. Of course you know I will claim it as my own and never give you the credit.

A: Understood. I will also passive aggressively update my Facebook status with a vague reference to that fact.

ICP: I wouldn’t expect anything less! Welcome aboard.

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Never Any Doubt

Posted on May 6, 2013 | 23 Comments

Mother’s Day is fast approaching, which means there will probably be a (well-deserved) wave of posts honoring the women who brought us all into this world. I thought I would jump the gun a bit, mostly because if I don’t publish this now, I probably just won’t.

You see, I’m not a sappy, sentimental person. I always make sure to say what I mean and mean what I say, but when it comes to being openly emotive and mushy?

Not so much.

This is not a trait I inherited from my mom, as she openly proclaims her love for people and things at an almost disturbingly frequent rate, hugging people she just met and tearing up over a random card I might send in the mail.

I used to find this annoying, and to be honest, sometimes I still do. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s often hard to relate to a virtue in someone else that you can’t easily conceive of in yourself.

But as an adult I’ve learned to navigate these differences and approach our relationship differently. She’ll never change who she is—loving, but stubborn as hell—and accepting our differences instead of constantly fighting against them has really been key as the years have gone by.

Which brings me to my point.

I’ve written about my mom’s disability before and if you’re not familiar with what she’s been through, I suggest you click through at some point. Not because I want you to read more of my posts, but because you should know what I mean.

Even though things weren’t “normal” with my mom when I was a kid—surgeries, braces, body casts—she made sure that everything else I knew was. I was raised with the knowledge that I was special, I was smart, I was loved.

busi

And obviously very well fed.

Things haven’t become easier as time has gone on. I still worry about her on a daily basis, and I know she still worries about me. We both have our reasons to worry.

But no matter what I might doubt in this world—myself, humanity, the validity of expiration dates on ChapStick—one thing I will never, ever doubt is the love that my mom has for me.

How she does it—how any parent does it—amazes me.

I would be a mess.

The thought of loving something that much, watching that little person leave my side or feel pain or hurt or sadness in any way, feeling so helpless as to how things might turn out—and doing most of this behind that “mom” mask of strength that so many moms seem to wear—all that would scare me to death.

But this isn’t about me.

It’s about my mom—every mom—who goes through these feelings of doubt that they’re doing things “right.”  Doubt that their children are happy and loved, that they know they’re happy and loved, that they’re protected enough but not overly so.

Maybe it’s because I’m older now or because I hear it from friends or read it on blogs, but I never fully grasped the scope and the depth of the sacrifice you all so willing make every day, most often with laughter and love. 

I thank you.

Because while I’ll never have kids of my own—my level of nurturing and dedication extends only to a (fake) houseplant—I respect the women who do, not just for what they do on a daily basis, but for who they are.

Women who worry. Women who sacrifice. Women who raise their children with the knowledge that they’re special, that they’re smart, that they’re loved and accepted—even if they’re not mushy.

I’m lucky.

I’ve never had any doubt.

Happy Mother’s Day out there!

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Pedestrian Crossing

Posted on May 3, 2013 | 24 Comments

While I hate to curse things, I think it’s safe to say that spring has finally sprung in these parts.

im-gonna-need-like-3-gallons-of-nair

This means a) the eternal battle with the woodchuck in my yard has begun b) I can take walks without coming home and molesting the space heater and c) it won’t be long now until I start complaining about how hot it is.

But first I’m going to complain about something else related to point “b” above —assholes who drive cars and shouldn’t drive cars because they’re assholes who don’t respect the rights of pedestrians.

Pardon my language, but this pedestrian is rather PO’d.

Picture this scenario: A lovely 30-something year old woman is enjoying a walk in the fresh air, probably composing a wonderful blog post in her head that she’ll immediately forget the second she makes it back home.

The next thing you know, some Catholic school kid blasting vulgar rap out of his janky-ass car drives by and honks and/or yells something that no one on Earth can understand. However, the noise still scares the crap out of the lovely 30-something-year-old woman powerwalking up the street.

Why is that a thing?

While I’ve been known to yell at stupid drivers in their cars, the only time I might feel compelled to yell out of my car at a complete stranger walking on the street is if a bear was about to attack them. Even then, I might wait and see what develops from that situation first.

Now I know what you’re thinking: It’s probably because the lovely 30-something-year-old woman is hot and doing some sort of sexy cougar catwalk, drawing attention of all who pass by.

Not so much.

Those days are well in the past. Plus, age knows no bounds with douchebag driver behavior, as you get it from older guys, too (which really just makes it more sad.) And if you think I’m picking on men, let me throw out another scenario that happens with both of the sexes.

A lovely 30-something year old woman is enjoying a walk in the fresh air, creating stressful scenarios in her head of events that will probably never actually happen.

She approaches a stop sign, sees the coast is clear and proceeds to step into the street. All of a sudden someone driving while talking on their phone rolls up and through the stop sign, almost running over our Polish pedestrian.

News flash: Waving, nervously smiling and mouthing “sorry” does not help when you almost make me a hood ornament. One of these times I might throw myself onto the hood of your car and create a dramatic scene, just to freak you out.

Don’t doubt the extent of my crazy.

My point is that a windshield is not a force field of invincibility, and being inside a car does not mean you are outside the realm of normal social conventions. When approaching pedestrians, do not yell or repeatedly honk, and WE SEE YOU PICKING YOUR NOSE.

If you feel the need to verbally express yourself while operating a motor vehicle, might I suggest car karaoke? A few verses of “Dancing Queen” or Rage Against the Machine will surely exercise your lungs and your demons without leaving pedestrians crossed or imbedded in the grill of your car.

I think that’s a win-win for all.

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