My Reflection is Stalking Me

I’ve been really busy avoiding mirrors after realizing that my reflection doesn’t do anything to inspire me, in fact, it has the opposite effect because what I see is everything I don’t want to be (unemployed, unhappy, malnourished, out of shape, and desperate – the last one is what did me in). But apparently avoiding mirrors only causes your reflection to appear more often. From the sliding glass doors at the grocery store to the tinted car windows in the parking lot to the ceiling-to-floor windows of an office building to extra shiny silverware to the rain puddles on a sidewalk—everywhere I go my reflection follows.

I used to be one of those people who couldn’t help but gaze at their reflection as they walked past a storefront window. Call it vain, but it was more about catching a glimpse of how other people saw me, how I looked to the rest of the world. When I get dressed and stand in front of a mirror at home, I know what I see is different from what other people see because I have a mirror pose: I purse my lips, bite the insides of my cheeks, suck in my gut, jut out my right hip and put my hands on my waist. This pose is something I only do when I am alone and standing in front of a mirror, I never look like this in real life. As a result, catching a reflection of myself doing something other than my mirror pose used to be interesting (back when the reality of my appearance wasn’t so…so…sad?) because it gave me a more realistic vision of myself.

But given the current devastating nature of this realistic vision, I find accidental reflections torturous. The worst is when the dark outside turns the windows into mirrors inside—I can’t see beyond my reflection, but in the darkness outside I imagine someone starring in at me and wondering if I am aware of just how unattractive I look when I make that scowling face. Now I scurry around the house right after the sun sets to make sure all of the blinds are closed so that my house isn’t full of mirrors that people can look in through. It’s become clear that I could throw away every mirror in my house and still never go a day without seeing myself. Whether I am walking the dog, running errands or eating dinner, I end up face to face with my reflection, which always reminds me of some weird combination of Eeyore and Britney Spears during her (on-going) “rough phase.”

I suppose I could attempt to drag this post out into some snarky, pseudo-philosophical observation on how my path to self discovery led me to run away from myself, but I made a promise having to do with brevity, so...I won't. Instead, I'm just going to say that when you feel like shit, you’re going to look like shit. I am working on feeling less like shit so that I can stop running from my reflection (because continuing to run from my reflection might make me more vain than if I were to linger in front of it lovingly...plus, I hate running). That being said, don’t be surprised if the next time you see me I am wearing a blindfold and being led by a seeing-eye dog.

From the Other Side of Brevity

I’ve never been good at being brief. I talk too much, interrupting perhaps for the sake of hearing myself talk; I write too much, smashing words into a sentence the same way I smash potato chips into my mouth, stopping only when I feel full, which is almost never. My writing has a style, a tone, a voice, and an attempted depth, none of which would have developed if it weren’t for a blatant disregard for brevity. I don’t have beef with brevity; in fact, many of the writers I admire are those who are famously skilled in the art of brevity. For instance, when Hemingway was challenged to write a story in under ten words, this is what he came up with: “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” It’s only six words, but it’s a story with a beginning, middle and end. The same professor who told me this Hemingway tale also told me that I would be a much better writer if I cut every other word I wrote. But this professor didn’t understand that my lack of brevity was something I was born with, much like his lisp, which would require many years of therapy for me to correct.

You see, my gene pool is populated with verbose people; I come from a long line of talkers, the kind that start and don’t stop. Take my grandfather, Pop, for instance, who my dad and grandmother lovingly refer to as “ol’ windbags.” Sure, he’s talkative, but it’s more than that because he likes to hear himself talk, but it’s still more than that because he likes to tell animated stories which he draws out with dramatic pauses, characters and voices all because he just likes to entertain. One could age a decade while listening to him tell a story. Although, this is not to say that Pop’s stories aren’t great, sometimes the first few minutes, or hours, seem to drag on, but no one can deny that the man knows how to close—whether it’s a perfectly timed punch-line or a musical number with jazz hands, Pop knows how to end a story with a bang, so much so that you walk away hardly aware of the two hours it took him to tell the story.

While he isn’t quite ready to admit it, my dad has the same windbag gene as Pop. It’s something he’s been growing into for at least the last 25 years. Usually, it comes out when we get into a philosophical, “this is what life is all about” type of conversation, but other windbag triggers I’ve discovered over recent years include, but are not limited to: golf, Jayhawk basketball, his political beliefs, why he disagrees with my political beliefs, the corrupt government, business practices, the corrupt government affecting his business practices, pool maintenance, vacations he took as a child, a few instances in which I performed well at a sporting event, things Tori and I did or said when we were little, and wine* (*easily substituted with anything that he can feign a truly believable expertise in, such as boating or irrigation). Although he is sensitive about his windbagness, he is willing to admit to being a “talker.” But just like Pop, dad knows how to end a story, or an impossibly long joke, in a way that almost makes you want to hear another.

People who know me know that if you don’t keep me on track during a conversation I digress into a story about a story that leads to another story. I learned early on that I have the windbag gene, which is one of my many genetic gifts among bad knees and high blood pressure. While there are many forms of the windbag gene that do not harm one’s ability to be brief, I believe the windbag gene I have has actually mutated with other genetic “issues” (A.D.H.D.), thus making it the strongest brevity-preventing strand yet.

Nevertheless, I have decided to use this blog as my windbag therapy. Here I will practice, and eventually learn, the art of brevity. I will rise above the windbag gene that has been passed down through so many generations in order to perfect a briefer writing style. So, in true Hemingway fashion, here is my six-word story:

Wanted: Brevity, long posts unread.

(Okay, that’s five words…not that I’m trying to one-up Hemingway, I’m just saying…)

The Unnecessary Information Form

Please answer the questions below to the best of your knowledge, filling out each line using legible print and not that bulls%#t chicken-scratch you picked up sometime in college.

The Preliminary Questions:

I. What is your age in years, months and days? ___________

II. What is the number listed on the barcode under your refrigerator?__________

III. What is your full name as written on your Library Card? _____________________________________________________

The Questions That Come After The Preliminary Questions:

1. Please calculate your BMI (Booty Mass Indicator) using this formula: Weight / (Number of Twinkies You Can Eat) x (Number of Seconds Your Thighs and/or Arms Shake After You Stop Moving) =__________

2. Do you have a steady and reliable job? _________

• 2a. If you answered ‘No’ to the above question: Are you as worthless as that might imply?______

• 2b. If you answered ‘Yes’ to the above question, please tear up this form and throw it away, then go look in the mirror and repeat the following mantra to yourself no less than 25 times: “I am special. I am capable. I am [insert your name].” Once complete, please initial here: _______

3. Please select the description that best illustrates your outlook on life:

• a. The glass is half full most of the time.
• b. The glass is half full all of the time.
• c. The glass is half empty.
• d. The glass is bone dry and I am f$%&ing thirsty!
• e. Other (please write): ____________________________________________

5. Please complete the following sentence: “My opinion of miniature elephant figurines changed forever the day I... ___________________________________________.”

6. If you had one wish, what would it be? Please select from the below acceptable answers:

• a. The ability to fly
• b. The ability to be invisible
• c. The ability to read minds
• d. To be rich and famous
• e. Other (please write): ____________(note: the line is short because no one actually cares)

7. Please circle any of the awful things listed below that you or a close relative have experience with:

• Wearing “Muscle Shirts”
• Seasonal Body Odor
  
• Ass-Kissing/Kiss-Assing
• Nepotism in Bowling
• Stealing Bottles of Tabasco Sauce from Chipotle
  

8. How many consecutive cartwheels can you do without falling or injuring yourself? (Be honest, physical tests will be administered at a later date.) ______________

9. Your weekday lunch typically consists of: (please select from the options below)

• a. Peanut Butter & Jelly
• b. Canned Soup and Toast
• c. Raw Pasta & Styrofoam
  
• d. Fast-Food Value Meal
• e. Other (please write): ____________________

10. Please rate the following items as SA (Strongly Agree), A (Agree), DA (Disagree) and OHN (Oh Hell No):

• a. People should be judged based on their Scrabble skills. ______
• b. Little People are funny. What? They are! _________
• c. Living on Unemployment is acceptable as long as you appear productive. ______
• d. Christian Bale’s next role should be to play Rosie O’Donnell in a Lifetime biopic._______
• e. 20 percent of your life is spent filling out forms and that sucks. _______

Thank you for completing this Unnecessary Information Form. We trust that you answered all of the above questions honestly and to the best of your ability. Now you can hurry up and wait for a response, or try to busy yourself with something else in an attempt to forget that you just wasted valuable minutes of your life filling out a completely pointless form that will be used for nothing worthwhile. Please note that any of the information you provided will not be kept confidential, and will likely be mocked by anyone who has the ability to read. If this bothers you, or if you have any other questions, please direct them to the next person that hands you a form to fill out.

List-Making Therapy

I make to-do lists when I get overwhelmed or stressed out. But sometimes instead of a to-do list, I end up making a different kind of list; for instance, the Unemployment Pros and Cons list I referred to in yesterday’s post. Occasionally, the lists I make are humorous and just a way for me to articulate whatever frustration is plaguing me at the moment, such as: Things That Asshats Do to Become Asshats, Reasons My Sister and I Should Never Live Together Again, Why the Olson Twins Suck at Life, and 20 Endearing Ways to Embarrass Yourself (the last one could actually be 50 ways as I’m quite experienced in this realm). Anyway, below is one I wrote today and decided to share.


Things That Will Always Make Me Feel Stupid No Matter How Much Learnin’ I Do:

1. The Stock Market. Numbers, math, numbers, abbreviated words, tiny print, percentages, points, numbers, math, down, up…I’m already tired.

2. Insurance. This is what I know: I have a plastic card that has my name and a code on it and this is what lets me play $30 at the doctor’s instead of $3,000.

3. How to change my oil, or a tire—actually, I’m not even certain that I know how to replenish my washer fluid.

4. How to drive in the snow without causing an accident. Yeah, I have an SUV, but I’m from Virginia, so I don’t get it.

5. Mortgages. When I was little I thought a mortgage was something that had to do with funeral homes and cemeteries – oh, the irony! While I still don’t understand mortgages, I might one day, thanks to HGTV.

6. Taxes. Given one through five, I don’t think I need to elaborate on this one.

7. Plumbing. No, seriously, from the disposal to the washer to the toilet—where is it all going, and why the hell does it make the basement flood?

8. Directions. I am directionally-challenged, so giving me compass instructions is pointless. If people don’t say things like, “hang a Louie and then turn at the sub shop with the space ship sign,” then I’m lost. I never know what direction North, South, East or West is in relation to where I am because I’m too busy concentrating so that my directional dyslexia doesn’t cause me to turn right when you just told me to turn left.

9. How to make a good pot of coffee. I blame a lack of patience for measuring portions.

10. This blog. I don’t really understand it. But if you do, please fill me in.

My Fridge Needs a Power Suit

The other day I had unexpected company. Usually, I at least attempt to make the house appear what I call “surface clean,” which means the house is really dirty, but to an untrained eye it appears relatively neat. Obviously, there was no time to prepare the house before the company arrived. I tried to usher everyone outside to a sitting area so that no one would focus too long on the dust-laden shelves, completely unrecognizable dining room table (this is where I have created an office) and the sink full of dirty dishes. Of course, the problem with taking the party outside is that people have to come in to go to the bathroom, get a drink, get a band-aid, whatever—and when they make these trips inside they are often alone and then free to examine the house and all its gross imperfections inflicted by the inhabitants.

“So, the contents of your fridge consist of milk, vodka and leftover pudding pie,” said one of my guests.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting company. I’m pretty sure there’s yogurt in there, too,” I said, as if this was an adequate defense.

This led me to think about what a person’s refrigerator contents say about them. Milk, vodka and leftover chocolate pudding pie might suggest that I like to entertain but rarely do, that I am slightly sloppy by nature, unemployed and probably eat out a lot. I wondered about my guests and what they must have in their refrigerators based on their personalities.

Suz, the gourmet cook with the fabulous everything, probably has cilantro in a cup of water, fresh tomatoes, a raw meat marinating in some sauce-filled tupperware, eggs, milk and all the necessary staples for whipping-up a delicious meal on a whim.

Ed, funny guy with a job at a good restaurant, probably has a styrofoam container of leftovers from said restaurant, a box of baking soda in the back and maybe a half-empty pitcher of instant Gatorade.

Tim, funny guy who I just met and know little about other than that he judged the contents of my refrigerator, probably has things in his refrigerator that don’t really belong there, like a box of cereal, peanut butter and maybe a bag of flour.

Can’t we just go back to judging people on their looks, the car they drive, the brands they buy and the job they have (or don’t have)? Life was so much easier when judgment was entirely superficial and limited to one’s appearance. I can put on a pin-striped power suit and appear incredibly capable to anyone looking to pass judgment. But now I apparently have to worry about the contents of my refrigerator, too? So, I guess my question is: can I buy power suit for my refrigerator?

Dandelion Wishes

Dandelions are attacking my yard; the yellow ones and the fuzzy ones. The latter is most concerning since these are the seed-bearing parachutes that enable Dandelion Domination. As I turned to Google for appropriate dandelion killing methods and contemplated the most lethal approach, I felt a little evil, as if I was killing part of my remaining childlike wonder. When an ad, escaping the death grips of my Popup Blocker (much like a dandelion), appeared on my screen that said "Kill Weeds Dead" I decided I needed to go outside and assess the situation with childlike wonder rather than adult annoyance.

I remember dandelions as a staple in every bouquet I assembled as a kid. Growing up, our house was surrounded by open land and during the summertime it looked like a sea of green interrupted by bursts of yellow. In my mind, the dandelions gave the grass character and dimension.

When I was very young, someone taught me how to pick a fuzzy dandelion and make a wish as you blew the cottony parachutes into the wind. This fascinated me. Every time I came across one of these feathery lollipops I couldn’t resist the chance to make a wish and watch as the seeds gently left the stem. I started coming up with elaborate, multilayered wishes, thinking each snowflake-like seed deserved its own wish to float away on. But the older I got the more this favorite childhood pastime became a nuisance to garden-weary adults: "Don't do that! Now we are going to have dandelion weeds everywhere!" So I became more cautious, still making dandelion wishes when no one was looking.

I walked out into the backyard, surveying the awkwardly long stems with their parachutes of seeds and the yellow clusters, wanting to feel something other than annoyance. I reached for a snowcapped dandelion and studied the pattern, gathered my breath and made a wish, watching the seeds scatter throughout the yard and into the neighbor’s yard. I picked a few yellow blossoms, tied them together in a ring and admired the arrangement.

At the risk of sounding trite, I think there’s something we can learn from dandelions. In a way, they are nature’s interpretation of that laid-back, go-with-the-flow person we all claim to be—they aspire to float through air, letting the wind blow them to a new place where they will happily make a home; meanwhile, I get annoyed when the wind blows my hair out of place. There’s something admirable about the resilience of dandelions and their determination to prosper in the face of chemical death traps like “Kill Weeds Dead.”

Dandelions are brave interruptions that no one under the age of ten remembers how to appreciate. But today my childlike wonder was restored, rescued from the heartless dungeon of adult annoyances, and all it took was a dandelion wish.