Saturday, September 28, 2013

Sometimes Crazy Wins

I tend to joke about the craziness that plagues me.  And, really, it is amusing.  It makes me think and say random things, it makes my brain run 50 steps ahead – or behind – the actual conversation I’m in, it keeps my house clean and my hands germ free.  But sometimes, on bad days, the crazy wins.  I try not let those days define me.  But recently I saw a Facebook post written by one of my sorority sisters that said, “Then there are those days that the OCD wins.”

And she’s right.  There are those days.  It’s pretty funny to laugh about my need for things to be in perfect alignment, for all items to be put away in their proper places, for my hands to be so clean that sometimes my knuckles crack and bleed.  But there are also days when it’s not so funny.

There are days when anxiety and depression and OCD win.  Sometimes singularly.  Sometimes they gang up on me and I feel utterly defenseless.

There are days when I am pretty sure that if I walk down the hallway and tap the wall three times with my right hand, I have to turn around and tap the wall three times with my left hand.  Because if I don’t, the earth might spin off its axis – and it would be my fault.  There are days when the silverware won’t stay in perfect piles in the drawer and it makes me feel like I can’t breathe.  There are days when my husband puts uncooked meat on my cookie platter and it brings on a panic attack.  Days when he moves his vitamin container to a different spot in the kitchen and I begin crying because I can’t handle it.  Days when I have to wash my hands just one more time – just one more time – just one more time – because I’m certain I picked up a flesh eating virus somewhere.  Days when anything with the number 6 makes me want to hide.  Days when I have to check multiple times that I have, in fact, for sure, absolutely positively, unplugged my flat iron – though I never even turned it on that day.  Days when I have to check my alarm clock at least ten times before I’m finally satisfied that it is truly set.

The rational part of my brain knows and understands that this isn’t normal.  The OCD in me doesn’t care.

Then there are days when I am certain that everything will go wrong.  Everything.  Absolutely everything is going to be catastrophically horrible.  There are days when nothing specifically causes anxiety, but everything in general does.  Days when I cancel dinner plans at the last minute because the thought of group conversation makes me panic.  Days when an unexpected knock on the door sends me into a tailspin.  Days when answering the phone seems like too much.  Days when I’m afraid to speak, for fear of saying something stupid.  Days when I’m panicked to introduce an old friend to a new one, because I might accidentally say the wrong name.  Days when I can’t make my mind stop running like a hamster on a wheel for even a second.  Days when sleep won’t come.  Days when fear and anxiety run my mind and clear thoughts can’t break through.  Days when conversations are hard because the words I hear don’t have a fighting chance against the thoughts in my head.  Days when I’m certain everyone is staring at me, judging me.  Days when everyone is standing too closely.  Days when I feel like, no matter how deeply I try to breathe, I cannot catch my breath.  Days when I feel dizzy with apprehension.  Days when I worry that I’m doing everything wrong, that I’m a terrible mother, a terrible wife, a terrible friend.  Days when the people around me can’t follow my train of thought, because my mouth can hardly keep up with my brain.  Days when I won’t sleep because I’m worried my alarm won’t go off in the morning.  Days when the only thing that seems to ward off a full-blown panic attack is tearing paper into tiny pieces.

Again, the rational part of my brain knows and understands that this isn’t normal.  I know that disaster is not looming.  The anxiety in me doesn’t care.  Not at all.

Then there are days, and these are the worst of all, when I don’t have the initiative to get out of bed.  There are days when I hate myself.  Days when I hate everything about myself.  Days when I feel so fat and ugly that I don’t even care to get dressed, because nothing in my closet will fit anyway.  Days when I feel worthless.  Days when I am certain I am not worthy of my husband’s love.  Days when I don’t feel like I deserve the life I have been blessed with.  Days when a shower just seems like too much effort.  Days when the only reason I resemble a human is because I have to be a mom.  There are days when I just simply don’t want to be around anyone, answer my phone, or answer texts.  Days when I am certain that I am quite possibly the most disgusting woman to ever live.  Days when every step seems like a mile in cement loafers.  Days when sadness takes over.  Days when I want to cry, but the tears won’t come.  Days when everything hurts.  Days when it doesn’t even seem worth it to fake a smile.  Days when I feel like a zombie, going through the motions of life, but feeling nothing.  Days when the lump in my throat just won’t go away.  Days when I quit before I even begin.  Days when I don’t even have the energy to give in to my OCD.  Days when I know I will never – not ever – be good enough.  Days when I feel I will never measure up.  Days when I don’t think I will amount to anything.  Days when I wallow in self-pity.  Days when I mentally beat myself up for every calorie I take.  Days when a nap is my only goal.  Days when joy just seem obtainable.  Days when melancholy doesn’t even begin to explain it.

Once more, this isn’t rational thinking, and the balanced part of my brain knows that.  But depression doesn’t care.  Depression is a lying whore.

Thankfully these days are few now.  But these are battles I have been fighting since I was in elementary school.  All of the crazy began long before my parents were even acutely aware.  I knew the anxiety (although I didn’t have a name for it) wasn’t normal.  Even a kid gets that normal is not counting taps on the couch, and feeling anxiety over accidentally stepping on a crack, and knowing that every scary instance on the news – or even in books and movies – was going to happen to my family next, and being terrified of anything less than perfection, and having to hold my breath to feel like I could catch it, and knowing that I was always going to say something regrettable, and never feeling like I fit in anywhere, and being terrified to read aloud despite being an excellent reader, and always feeling awkward in groups, and feeling despondent for no reason, and being afraid to go to sleep, and being afraid of being a disappointment, and not feeling confident in my own skin, and feeling impeccably clumsy, and not ever feeling pretty, and allowing friends to make fun of me relentlessly.  No, not normal at all.

Medication is obviously quite helpful.  The dosage has been adjusted accordingly over the years.  A few times I felt like I was strong enough to go without it, and even though I insisted I was fine, the people around me knew better.  Fortunately Mr. B is brave enough to say, “Look, you’re kind of acting crazy.  Are you taking your Lexapro or should we talk about upping your dose?”  I’m always irritated with him, because obviously it’s his fault I’m nuts.  But, after I chill out, I remember he is generally aware enough to know the difference between my normal day-to-day craziness, and my need-to-up-the-happy-pills craziness.
And I pray.  A lot.  Nonsensical prayers, but God knows.  Often the only thing I can get out is, "Thy strength Lord," or "Thy peace Lord," or "Thy patience Lord."

I am tremendously blessed to have positive people in my life.  People who keep me grounded and love me regardless of my crazy.  People who can laugh at the crazy with me.  People who enjoy my insane stories.  People who help me realize my potential on a daily basis.  People who remind me that I am a good mom, I am a good wife, I am a good friend.  People who make sure that those rare bad days aren’t as bad as they could be.  People who help me make sure the crazy doesn’t always win.

Beat the crazy.  Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.

Monday, September 23, 2013

My Dog is on Xanax

Daisy is a great dog.  The best.  She protects her brother, she snuggles, and cuddles, and sleeps all the time, and barks at the mailman, and wags her whole body when we get home, she knows her middle name and that it is only used when she's in trouble, she can sit and shake and give high fives and speak and whisper and fetch, and all the other awesome things dogs do.  But better.  Because she's the best.

That being said -- she also incessantly licks and chews at her feet.  Nonstop.  She licks and chews her until her skin is red and raw and she is whimpering in pain, but won’t stop.  Assuming she is an allergy sufferer like the rest of our family, we loaded her up on prednisone and Benadryl at the suggestion of our vet.  This lasted several years.

A few months ago, I took her in for a checkup and described her habit in detail.  Particularly that when she’s afraid she’ll get scolded for licking her feet, she will begin licking cotton pillows or fleece blankets.  Occasionally, she will nibble holes – a behavior we’ve tried to correct since she was a puppy – a behavior that, if you’ve been to my house, explains my shitty looking throw blankets.  And if you haven’t been to my house, I’m kidding, my throw blankets are completely superior to yours.

The vet became silent and said, “How do you feel about mind-altering medication?”  “Pardon?” I asked.  He went on to explain that Daisy’s behavior is consistent with a compulsive disorder and wondered if I was opposed to mind-altering medication.

At this point I began laughing and said, “This is really funny because I have OCD.  So I’m a pretty big fan of mind-altering medications.  Maybe this is genetic?”

I left with her bottle of amitriptyline and added it to her drawer in the kitchen alongside her arthritis medicine, allergy medicine, steroids, heartworm prevention medicine, flea and tick killer, toothbrush, special toothpaste, doggy downers (for grooming visits, Halloween, and 4th of July), three different flavors or treats, and her hot pink zebra print leash that is rarely used.  No wonder we don’t feel the need to have another human child, we already have a furry one.  Also, no wonder the vet recommended she lose 10 pounds – a quarter of her body weight.  Update on that?  She gained 5.

Back on track… I called my husband and said, “You’re not going to believe this.  Daisy has a compulsive disorder.”  I eased his confusion by explaining what the vet said and told him that she now has a prescription of doggy Xanax.

Then, he laughed and said, “Oh my God.  She IS your daughter!”

One of my closest friends said, “That’s hilarious!  It’s a match made in heaven!”

Moral of the story, my family and friends are all aware of my crazy tendencies and love me in spite of it because of it.  And also, we are the perfect home for our Daisy girl.

Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.

Monday, September 16, 2013

And That's How I Wound Up in the Judge's Chambers

Wednesday, I arrived at the county courthouse, with Little K in tow, to report for jury duty.  You might remember that I tried informing the court secretary of my lack of childcare, but she could not have possibly cared less.  So when I arrived to fulfill my civic duty, I was feeling a little smug and superior while holding the hand of 3 year old.

Then I walked into the courtroom and immediately regretted the decision to bring him (not that I had any other choice).  I was met with nasty glares from the 49 other potential jurors.  I imagine it was just jealousy.  They were probably thinking, “That bitch is genius!  I should have borrowed a kid to bring with me too!”

Then the judge entered to address us and sent a few nasty looks of his own my way while explaining that serving as a juror is a satisfying and fulfilling experience.  He seemed extremely displeased with Little K's bright red ball-cap and stated that all hats needed to be removed.  When I pulled it off of his head, the people directly behind me snickered, which made his majesty even more annoyed.

Little K , by the way, was behaving perfectly; quietly driving his cars and airplanes.  And no, I did not sugar him up before we arrived.

We were given instructions to use the loo if necessary, and that the selection process would begin in fifteen minutes.  Immediately after the judge exited, a stern looking woman made her way over to me.  I imagine this is the same friendly secretary I spoke with on the phone.  She snarled her nose and said in the least kind voice possible, “I need you two to come with me.”

I followed her, assuming that Little K and I would be dismissed immediately.  Instead, we were led through a series of doors into the judge’s chambers where I was then scolded. 
Here is the conversation that ensued:

Judge: I noticed you brought your child with you today.

Me: Yes I did.

Judge: Do you have a babysitter you will be calling?

Me: No I don’t.  I explained to your secretary on the phone that I do not have childcare available.

Judge: You cannot bring a child into the courtroom.

Me: I understand that, and I want you to know that I do take this seriously.  But, I don’t have childcare.  We are not from this town and have no family here.

Judge: I CANNOT have a child in the courtroom.

Me: I had two options, they were to leave him home unattended or bring him with me.

Judge: I understand that.  I am going to dismiss you today.  But you WILL be called for jury duty again, and you WILL find a babysitter.

Me: Sir, I explained to you that I do not have childcare available.  I’m not sure what you want me to do.

Judge: You WILL be called again for jury duty.  You WILL NOT bring your child.  You’re dismissed.

So apparently he didn’t have a well-balanced breakfast.  Maybe I should write a letter explaining to him the importance of eating well, and that a good protein to carbohydrate ratio can really calm the nerves.  Either that or the county is running low in meeting quota for child neglect cases, particularly those regarding unattended 3 year olds.

I called my dad to complain about how they spoke to me, but his response was, “You took Little K with you?  Kid, you know better than that.”  I know, but in my defense, I honestly did not have anyone available.  I understand that the justice system doesn’t work without a jury, but I am first and foremost a mom.  And I’m not certain all that sure that I’m fair and balanced.  I’m probably fair, but definitely not balanced.

Silver lining: I wound up with a free day with Little K and didn’t have to stay for jury duty.

Random thought: Next time I’m called, I’m borrowing someone’s breast pump.  I would like to walk in with it attached, and request access to a deep freeze.  Surely they can’t keep you confined if you are a food source…

Also, that judge should have known how seriously I was taking my civic duty.  I wore jeans, mascara, AND I curled my hair.  No yoga pants = serious business.

Thanks for keeping me In Good Company.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


I mentioned in a recent post, Mommy Needs a Drink, that mothering a toddler can be a pretty tough gig sometimes.  I was thinking of all of the randomness that is three.  So, I have presented a completely unorganized, schizophrenic look at what three looks like at our house.

Three is...
...Loud. Three year olds have the volume control of a drunken college boy at a toga party. 

...Dirt Covered.  Except for his hands, if a speck of mud taints his tiny peach hands, prepare for a shrill scream that makes your spine ache.

...Repetitive.  Each and every day, approximately 90,784 times per day, I hear common phrases such as, "is it morning?" "where are my shoes" "good morning" "where's my dog" "I need a snack" "I'm not hungry!" "I want a SNACK".

...Messy.  In a bodily fluids kind of way.  Similar to the incident described in this post.  Here is a recent text I sent to my husband,
"Next time I hear Little K start bawling during nap time, followed by a screaming, "OH NO I POOPED EVERYWHERE!  IT'S EVERYWHERE!"  I'm going to leave him in there and wait for you to get home.  It was all over his bed, bed rails, lovies, blankets, hands, feet, clothes, back, carpet, pillows, etc.  It was literally EVERYWHERE.  Except for the curtains, although I probably should double check that.  I had to bleach and sanitize everything, AND shampoo the effing carpet.  I even had to bleach the bathtub after I washed him.  I have no clue how that much shit came out of that small of a child or how exactly it turned into shit-mageddon.  But seriously, next time, it's your turn.
I literally prayed while cleaning: "Dear God, please let my child learn to shit in the toilet like a normal human.  Amen.""

In case you were curious, his response to that text was, "Sorry for your "shitty" day."

...Messy in public.  Again, in a bodily fluids kind of way.  Again, the text I sent to my husband best describes the situation.
"Little K pissed on the floor at the library.  I'm not even kidding.  Like a HUGE puddle of pee.  The most pee I have ever seen in my life.  It sounded like a waterfall and looked like he was pouring a pitcher of water through his shorts.  Thank God I stuck my thin black jacket in my gym bag because he wore it as a lovely wrapped skirt out of the library and in the car.  They had just taken him potty at the Y so I don't even know how that happened.  He had to tell the librarian what he did.  Thankfully she was super nice about it.  I was mortified!"

...Unintentionally hilarious.  Little K had his first real non-mommy-given haircut a few weeks ago by a real live 115 year old barber.  The barber asked him if he had a brother, to which he replied, "no".  He then asked him if he had a sister, to which he replied, "Yes! Daisy.  She's black and white!"  I didn't bother to explain.  I'll let the barber believe we are a politically incorrect family that has a molato daughter with Vitiligo.  The barber then gave Little K a gumball for behaving so well during his haircut.  I've never allowed him to have gum before because I'm neurotic and have worried he would choke.  After his haircut, still chomping on his gum, while riding in the grocery cart at the crowded market, he suddenly shouts, "That guy give me a gumball!  It tastes like BALLS!"  My face went 90 shades of red as I yelled, "No!  Gum!  It tastes like gum!"

...Awesome.  Now in to repeating random phrases from commercials, Little K shouts strange things in public.  On his very first day of preschool, Mr. B and I were waiting with him outside of the classroom.  I was a nervous wreck, trying to keep from bawling in front of all of the other probably just as nervous mothers.  Little K's teacher walks by, and he yells, "Ms. Becky!  Ms. Becky!  I need to tell you something!"  "What Little K?"  And, after everyone is staring at us, in his best announcer voice, he yells, "CRISPY BACON HERE!"  (from the "Premium Pretzel Dog" Sonic commercial).  He was very proud of himself.  Very.

...Religious.  One day I picked Little K up from preschool and noticed that he had on socks with his loafers and shorts.  Not a huge deal, but I just don't typically dress my son like a 70 year old retiree, and I know he hadn't had them on when I dropped him off.  Also, they weren't our socks so I was naturally curious.
"Little K, why do you have socks on with your loafers?  Did Ms. Becky put them on you?"
"No.  Because that guy put them on me."
"What guy?"
"Um, Jesus."
I was immediately thankful that we chose to send him to Catholic school -- even though we are Protestant.  I mean, Jesus never helped me with my shoes at public school.  But, as it turns out, there is a male aid at the school, who happens to have a goatee.  Little K didn't know his name at the time, and just picked the name of the another guy with facial hair.

...Oversharing.  I've mentioned more than once that poop-training has been a huge issue for Little K.  I've been convinced for quite some time that he will likely attend college in Pull-Ups.  But, thanks to some advice from my sister, we have made huge strides in the pooping department.  I haven't had to clean up shit off of anything but a bottom in at least three weeks.  This is huge.  The only problem now is that he often tells strangers, "I pooped in the big toilet!" or "I poop like a big boy!"  My favorite, though, is when he holds up whatever recent toy we have bribed him with, and shouts, "See this new ______?  I earned it!  I got it for pooping!"

...Lacking an inside voice.  More than once, Little K has announced loudly in a public restroom that his mommy has pooped.  One time in particular, he was shouting (and I do mean shouting), "Ewww Mommy, that's GROSS!  That's a LOT of poop!  Pew that stinks!  That's gross, Mommy!  Yuck!"  I tried my best to hurry up while telling him to please be quiet.  Then his proclamations of my bowel movement just turned into a stage whisper, and none the quieter.
Another time, he told me, "Good job for pooping, Mommy!  Are you going to get a surprise?"  I could hear snickering coming from the other stalls.

...Embarrassing.  Yet another time in a public restroom, I was doing my business when I look up and hear Little K say, "Mommy, what's this thing do?"  He was unlocking the stall.  I was too far away to reach it.  In my sternest voice I say, "Don't. Touch. Anything."  Then... he leans into the bathroom door as it flies open; sending him skidding into the sink area, and leaving me exposed, pants down, on the john, to at least 3 women.  There is no ladylike way to get yourself out of that situation.  None.

...Sweet.  I took my little man to the coffee shop for milk and a muffin -- a sugar free skinny iced latte for me.  As the ladies walked by, he told each one "Good morning!"  Then he sat down at a table, I started to sit across from him when he pulled out a chair next to him and said, "Sit by me, Mommy!"  Little K always wants one more kiss from me at bedtime, and needs a kiss over the baby gate when I drop him off at the gym's daycare -- last week he pushed another kid down because he thought that kid was going to sneak in and kiss his mommy.  My favorite is that whenever I wear a dress (even if it's a just a maxi dress... which we all know is just crotch-less yoga pants), he always tells me I look like a princess.

...Artistic.  During a recent trip to visit my parents, Little K was taking a quiet afternoon nap.  My mom had promised him that if he took a good nap he would get a really great surprise.  She had gone in to wake him up when I heard her yell my name.  My first thought was, "Great, I'm going to have to clean up shit."  When I walked in the room, I saw my son standing, nude from the waist down, covered in red and blue markings.  I had to leave the room to get the laughter out of my system before gaining enough composure to walk back in.  When I did return, I noticed that he had colored not only his arms and legs, but his face, his bottom, his shirt, and his wiener.  I absolutely could not stop laughing at that point.  Until I noticed that he had also colored all over the walls, the bedframe, a quilt, several stuffed animals, and the carpet.  Thank God my mom had bought washable markers.  Little K's only comment about the whole thing was, "So I guess this means I'm not getting my surprise?"

...Sarcastic.  Little K often plays with my foam roller or yoga block.  One day he was riding the foam roller around like a horse.  "Look Mommy, I'm riding a horse!"  "Wow!  That's really neat, buddy!  What does your horse look like?"  He looked at me like I was the biggest idiot on earth, and said with a huge amount of attitude, "Like a foam roller."

Every day is an adventure with this little guy.  But I wouldn't trade a moment of it for anything (well, except for maybe the moments when I have to clean up bodily fluids).

Thank you for keeping me  In Good Company.

Monday, September 9, 2013


After I drop Little K off at preschool, I often head to a local coffee shop for a Sugar-Free Skinny Vanilla Iced Latte with 2 extra shots of Espresso.  I know... I annoy myself.

Generally I have a bit of time to chat up the baristas while they are creating my novel of a drink.  This is a conversation that took place last week with the coffee girl who I’ve been chatting with for years, after I had noticed a tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
Me: Is that a white ink tattoo?
B (for Barista, because I don’t know her name): It is!
Me: Is it new?  I always see them on Pinterest but have never seen one in person.
B: No, I got it a long time ago when no one would do them.  I had to go to a guy’s house to get it done because I couldn’t find anyone who did white ink.
Me: Oh so you totally had it before it was cool.
B: Oh yeah.  But before anyone had seen them, people used to ask me if I had cut myself.  I don’t think I could cut in a pattern like that.
Me: You’re a cutter.  But a fancy cutter.
B: Exactly.  A fancy cutter.
Me: Anyway, I like your tattoo.  I’ve been admiring those for a while.  I have a tattoo on my low back.  Yes, it’s a “tramp stamp”.  But it’s a cross.  So I guess it’s okay, since I’m tramping for Christ.
B: Okay well here’s your coffee.

I think I might have muttered something about not really being a tramp, but by that point the damage was done. 
I don’t think people understand my awkward sense of humor.   Maybe I forgot to mention that this coffee shop is also a Christian book store.  But I like to think my Jesus has a stellar sense of humor.  My husband said that I shouldn't talk to strangers.  But, in my defense she wasn’t a complete stranger.  And my life would be way less exciting if I wasn’t continually saying inappropriate things.

Thanks for letting me be weird.  And thanks for keeping me In Good Company.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Abs with Vanilla Ice

A few months ago while visiting my parents in my hometown, I went to the local YMCA for some upper body weights.  The dynamic of this YMCA is pretty interesting, as the muscle-heads aren’t used to having women in the weight area.  They either assume you are looking for a date – I’m not – or you are just going to be in the way – go to hell.  Typically after a few heavy lifts with good form, they stop rolling their eyes at me and let me work in on sets if I need to.

On this particular day, I chatted with a few of the guys about CrossFit after noticing them do several sets of ten Burpees and Max Effort Bar Muscle Ups.  One guy told me I needed to come to his 5:30am Boot Camp class.  I let him know that if I was up, I would totally be there.  He said, “Great!  See you in the morning!”  I forgot to mention to him that I don’t get up that early unless there is a CrossFit class or a fire.

I finished my weight sets and headed to the mats for a few stretches when the following encounter occurred with a really enthusiastic gold chain wearing Vanilla Ice lookalike.

VI: You’re not leaving already, are you?

Me: Yep.  Just doing some stretches before I head out.

VI: You aren’t going to do any ab work?

Me: Just triceps and chest today.

VI: Chest, triceps, abs, it’s all upper body!

Me: Are you trying to tell me I need to work on my abs?

VI: Um, well I wasn’t saying that.  Have you ever heard of a little thing called P90 eeeeeexxxxxxxxxxxxssssssssss?

He said it just like that, too.  Dragging out every sound of that X.

Me: Yeah.

VI: Have you ever done it?

Me: Nope.



At this point I’m a little stupefied by his lack of ability to read my facial expression that is stuck somewhere between “I’m calling the police” and “Did they allow you to drive here on your own?”  But because I’m polite and curious, I didn’t tell him to leave me alone.

Me: Um… okay.

VI: Okay, first move.  On your back, feet in.  This one’s kind of hard.  You might not be able to get your feet up like this.

Me: I’m a yoga instructor.  I’m pretty sure I can.

VI: We’re doing 20 reps.  I don’t expect you to do 20, I expect you to do 15.  Ready, on three. 1-2-3.

Vanilla Ice had all of a sudden morphed into an overly friendly personal trainer.  I’m pretty sure he has watched his P90X DVDs hundreds of times in order to memorize every single word.  It was like watching weird exercise karaoke.

Me: Are you an instructor?

VI: No.  Ready? Next Move.  Let’s go.  On three.

I was having a really hard time doing any of this because I was concentrating on not laughing at the absurdity of the situation.  I was wondering how many people were watching what was surely a spectacle, and how many people had been subjected to Vanilla Ice’s coaching in the past.  All of them probably now know to avoid eye contact.

VI: Ready for the next one?  It’s a real pooch burner.  On three.

Me: Okay I really need to go now.

VI: Only two more exercises.  Is your pooch burning?

Me: Did you just acknowledge my pooch?

VI: Only two more exercises.  Ready?

Me: Sure…

By this time I’d been doing P90X with this random guy for 20 minutes, and my pooch was NOT, in fact, burning.  I was just ready to leave.

VI: Last move.  This one is tough.  Only I can do this one.

Me: Only you, huh?

VI: Yep.  I’ve got the strongest core there is.

Just let that sink in for a moment.  He actually said “I’ve got the strongest core there is.”

VI: All these guys in here, they can’t do this move.  Only I can.

Me: Alright.

He starts to do this weird oblique crunch I’m fairly certain is NOT a functional movement.  And, by the way, I rocked that crunch.  Suck on that, Vanilla Ice.  So after 20 minutes, the ab class was over.  I resumed my stretching.

Me: Thanks for the workout.  See ya.

VI:  Oh I see what you’re doing there.  A little bit of Child’s Pose, Downward Dog action, huh?  See I know your Yoga.

He now begins sloppily striking Yoga poses as he’s calling out their names.

VI: See? Warrior I, Warrior II, Triangle.  I know your Yoga.  My favorite is crane.

Me: Let’s see it.

VI: What?

Me: Your crane pose.  Let’s see it.

VI: Well, I mean, I’m not in my zone.

Me: Oh no, you’d better do it.  Let’s see it Yoga Man.

VI: Uh, okay…

He tries to get into Crane and he… wait for it… fell over.  He fell the hell over.  It took everything I had not to laugh at the man who, you know, obviously has the strongest core there is.

VI: I do a lot better when I’m in my zone.  You know, when I’m doing P90X Yoga.

Me: P90X Yoga isn’t real Yoga.

VI (looking like I just punched his ferret – I’m just assuming he has a ferret, he struck me as that kind of guy): What?  Why would you say that?

Me: P90X completely passes over the mental and emotional part of yoga.  They take a few poses, do them over and over again, and miss the meditative breathing and the relaxation.  The whole point of Yoga is to connect your body, spirit and mind.  You have to quiet the movements of your mind to do that.  They completely miss that.

VI (putting his hands out to the sides and closes his eyes): Okay, okay I get it.  I’m hittin’ what you’re pitchin’.  They don’t make you meditate.  I get it.  I get it.

Me:  Okay.  Well, bye.  Thanks again for the burning pooch.

As I left I immediately called pretty much everyone I know so that I could tell them about my bizarre gym experience.  I was more than a little surprised that everyone was more concerned about my inability to walk away.  You worked out with him for more than TWENTY MINUTES?!?!” was a common factor in most of the conversations.  I think they were missing the point.  Maybe I didn’t do his voice just right.

Regardless, I have now learned my lesson about talking to strangers.  The lesson being that amusement is almost always in store.

Thanks for keeping me In Good Company.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

Civic Duty

On Monday I have fulfill my “civic duty” and report for jury duty.  I tried to get out of it by calling the court office and explaining that I am a stay at home mom with no one to watch Little K .

Court Secretary – I’m sorry ma’am, but that is not a valid excuse to let you out of jury duty.
Me – I don’t have any family in town.  There is no one available to watch my child.
CS – Being a stay at home mom is not a good enough reason to excuse you.  If you had an emergency, you would find someone to watch your child.
Me – No I wouldn’t.  I would take him with me to my emergency situation.  Because I don’t have any family in town.
CS – I’m sorry, but I cannot excuse you.  If you would like to discuss this matter with the judge I will give you his number.
The judge also doesn't care about stay at home moms.  Needless to say I am super frustrated by the court system's lack of caring that I selflessly gave up my promising career as a minimum wage office assistant to stay at home and raise my offspring.  Maybe she doesn’t understand how harrowing the age of three can be.

It’s not like the five dollars they are going to pay me isn’t enticing, but I don’t really feel like it’s my civic duty to serve as a juror.  I feel like it it’s my civic duty to not be break the law like an asshole.

But, because, more than my need to stay at home, I would like to not have a warrant out for my arrest – or a hit put out on me… I’m not exactly sure how that works in Kansas – I am going to report for jury duty on time.  With my three year old (I really don't have anyone to watch him)… and he will have had a breakfast of sprinkled frosted cake donuts and chocolate milk.  And maybe a Popsicle.

In a perfect world, I would walk in carrying my high-on-sugar son, explaining to him that this is silly because the guy is guilty anyway.  Then I would make a comment that is borderline racist.  Although my guilty conscience wouldn’t allow me to any do that.  Partially because I would like to believe in our justice system.  But mostly because racism isn’t funny, even if you are only pretending.  But also I would worry that Jesus might be half Hispanic, half African American, and I would hate for Him to overhear my comment, miss my comedic intentions to get out of jury duty, and get totally offended.  You can’t ever be sure, they never spoke of Instagram in Leviticus.

Maybe a better option would be to randomly break out in interpretive dance moves.  I’m thinking a cross between Phoebe’s running on Friends and Elaine’s dancing on Seinfeld.

Regardless it will likely be a fabulous experience.  I’ll be sure to have a camera if any dancing occurs.

Fulfill you civic duty by not being an asshole.  If you don't break the law, no one would have to worry about reporting for jury duty.
Thank you for keeping me In Good Company.