A tale of my month of mayhem (if left to the discretion of a word cloud)

Not sure if I feel good, or bad about some of the larger items on the list...

At the minimum, I've amused myself for the past 15 minutes. #BackToWork

31 Kids Who Are Too Clever For Their Own Good

One of my closest friends is a teacher, so when she passes along forwards, I can't say I always enjoy the children's moments to the level she does (sorry, Focker). That said, she hit it out of the park today with one of her forwards. Dare I say -- one of the funniest all year? Perhaps I'm just in a laughing mood...

http://www.buzzfeed.com/expresident/kids-who-are-too-clever-for-their-own-good

Most notable: Doughnut Conspiracy Kid, and the Emo Poet. Or, mafia kid. Brilliant!

A Moment of Magnificence

I was a little out of touch with reality as I sat in traffic tonight. I was mostly focused on the burning sensation coming from my abs and legs (thank you half marathon training), and relishing in the onset of a wine buzz compliments of the grocery store tasting kiosk. I made the decision to indulge in a few samples alongside a 90-year-old woman with a near 90-degree posture, and a hispanic woman who looked like she'd had as tough of a week as myself. The three of us gave an air toast with our plastic sample cups, and I departed from my local Safeway with two bottles of expensive wine I otherwise wouldn't have purchased.

Windows cracked and red wine now occupying my passenger seat, the traffic eased a bit, and I arrived at the traffic light nearest my house. And there was something about this particular moment that felt really good. Almost like a crescendo of sorts -- the sun was setting, signifying the end of a week that did a number on me. And I was sore. But it felt good, like I took on the world. Like I endured it, and emerged victorious. Like... oh my god... is that Toto on the radio? My arm was not my own, and in a matter of seconds, the dial cranked further to the right until I was belting out the words with about as much gusto as you might expect from an SNL skit.

It wasn't until I hit my high, "I've got some brains down in AfffRICA!! (I've got some brains.) Gonna take some time to do the things I never haaaaa aaaa aaaa aaaa aaadddd! Wooo ooooooo" that I noticed a group of African American foot commuters staring at me with what can only be described as terror and bewilderment that I realized how lost I had gotten into my moment. The light flickered to green, and I sped off into the sunset with my single headlight, amused by the permanent damage I'd just caused to those innocent gentleman and anxious to see where the weekend might take me.

As the photo technician at CVS pharmacy might say, it's the little things in life. Yes, yes it is.

All you need is [Marcus] love

The past month of my 20-something life has been trying, positioning me among several rather difficult situations and on many occasions plainly pissing me off. Which makes those little moments that are so simple and plainly uncomplicated so precious.

[So what this took me a week to share!] #MarcusTherapy #LoveComesinShadesofRed #ILostMyHeartinOhio

Cavemen and Modern Day Man: Are we that different?

It was one of the last few nights Imraan and I had together, marking the tail end of nearly three weeks of what had been a trying time, and in the end, a time that felt more comfortable than not. It was the time of year in Phoenix that three weeks meant the difference between debilitating heat and crisp desert nights.  And on this particular lovely evening, we sat at the dinner table clicking away at our respective computers. We should have been on the patio, taking in the late-summer breeze, but that’s beside the point.

“What are your thoughts on evolution?” Imraan asked me over the top of his screen.

I’ve not been very eloquent lately in my ability to regurgitate information from any number of articles I follow online, smart podcasts I regularly tune-into, or more often, thoughts I’ve formed shortly thereafter.  I responded with a grunt and a cop-out answer.

“I think it’s a thing.” I continued my focus on the computer, clicking away on my keyboard.

Imraan pressed, per the usual. “I want to know how you feel about it, sweets. What do you think happened in particular?” He switched his gaze from his laptop screen to me.

“I think… um… that it’s a real thing, yeah. That, you know… giraffes once had shorter necks and stretched to reach things up high. Eventually, over years and years, they adapted to their surroundings, developed more desirable traits… then all the sudden, they all had long necks…”

Imraan interjected, “Wrong! Let me tell you sweets, because I took a class on this, what really happened…”

I took a class on slapping you… I mumbled to myself.

… “You see, it’s not that the animals adapted to the surroundings, or that the humans adapted to the environments either. What happened, is that humans and animals that randomly were born with more environmentally or situationally desirable traits survived over the others! So, for instance, the horse that was randomly born with a long neck began to access food better than the other horses. Over time, it became what we know as a giraffe! It wasn’t that they evolved to get longer necks over time!”

I sat totally unamused, cross-legged at the table glaring at him. “So, let me get this clear… you asked for my opinion on evolution… just to tell me you knew the answer, and to make me feel like a moron?”

Imraan looked shocked. “No, sweets. No. I just thought it was an interesting point of note. I was reading here, you see...”

He went on for a while until we diverged onto a related topic, one I found quite interesting finally, which had us examining parts on our own bodies that assumedly used to be worthwhile, but that in the 21^st century seem ridiculous. I suggested fingernails. We don’t dig. Imraan suggested ear lobes and the appendix. Input from my friends and family – frequent blogger focus groups of two and three - brought arm-pit hair and facial hair into the mix. Personally, I’ve always regarded hair’s purpose as one to protect from dirt, dust, or in some cases to block sweat from vital parts (think eyebrows). But my peers bring up relevant points – from what are we protecting our arm-pits? Our cheeks and chins? And… ear lobes?

Has mankind evolved so little since cavemen that we still posses traits suited for digging and clawing? Maybe I should start digging and clawing again? Using my earlobes as devices to perhaps carry water buckets (they did recently remove water coolers from my office complex)?

I welcome input on other unneccesary body parts so I may also find a way to incorporate into my daily life. Pictures will inevitably ensue.

If this doesn't make you want to visit Iceland...

...you might be an unfun individual. 

Iceland - added to my list.

The bliss of another Bell Boy Reunion

“It was a dark and stormy night when the one-eyed bulldog came to town…”

I finished my uncle’s scenario, “…and he was in search of a good cold beer.” We leaned in towards each other, gestured for a “cheers” – clank -- and tipped back our chilled brews. Izzy the bulldog shoved her paws over my bare feet, paying no attention to the story we were creating about the very one eye she boasted. My weight was supported by a thin canvas folding chair as I looked out at Beaver Lake. That was just fine, I thought; the weight I carry around most days never seems to come with me when I travel home for this particular reunion. I felt home.

The weather was sunny and sticky. Boats zipped back and forth in the Bell cove causing a constant clamor of waves on the dock, growing closer and receding simultaneously. The hours passed, and the sensation began to feel natural. Evidence of a fast-paced, or just lazy agenda could be found, as sopping wet neoprene life vests decorated the sun deck.  Crossword puzzles were put to shame by the brains of the lot.  A grueling competition of dockside chin-ups took place. The smell of fish and dogs began to overwhelm me. One Bell boy expended pent-up energy by running up and down the lake trail. Another, by break dancing on the edge of the dock. Conversation never slowed. Serious burgers were grilled. Trout lines were set. Impressive exhibits of slalom skiing, wakeboarding and wake skating were on display for all of Northwest Arkansas.

Uncle Billy’s poignancy never fails to capture the exact sentiment. “This… is the life.”

#BellBoyReunion

There’s a reason that more than a dozen family gatherings have taken place on Labor Day on this very dock, and not a one of them has been missed by me. A bit of photographic exposition below: 

And apparently, previous years have also merited glory posts. I've unearthed them up for the curious and/or those that just have some time to kill:

2009 - http://hangingpossum.blogspot.com/2009/09/nth-annual-bell-boy-reunion-bubba.html

2010 - http://hangingpossum.blogspot.com/2010/09/bell-boy-reunion-of-2010-delilah.html

2011 - Apparently, I was a slacker.

30,000 feet, five hours of uninterrupted bliss

I boarded the plane to Phoenix this morning with blood shot eyes and an impatient, and emptied spirit from six days of conferencing in Boston. While the convention itself was remarkable (on a variety of levels), what it didn’t offer was sleep or time to yourself. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned the value these two factors have in the recipe of my happiness. 

So I was a tad edgy.

I was ready to be back in Arizona, albeit for just under 24 hours to hop on another flight to Arkansas. I’d identified my 15A window seat, and gestured to my already seated row mates in 15B and 15C to let me in. 15C didn’t look pleased to be getting up, which was confusing since he looked a lot like Santa.  Well, a Boston version of Santa in Red Sox gear. My carryon bag was ridiculously heavy, and to make matters worse, I had selected a silk blouse with sharp buttons on the shoulder. The strap was no doubt creating a permanent imprint into my thin, alcohol-flushed membrane. Just as I began the awkward “duck and two-step shuffle maneuver” to get into my window seat - the whole time desperate to lighten my load - a woman behind me got my attention.

“Excuse me, you.  Um… that’s my husband in your row -- 15C [Santa]. Would you mind trading me seats? I figured it wouldn’t be too much trouble since we’re both window seats…” She asked the question reticent; like there was a good chance I’d not accept her offer.

“No problem,” I returned. Whatever. Just move. I scooted back out of my row and into a completely empty one behind me. Congratulating myself on the luck of the situation, I overheard the woman in the middle seat ask this woman if she wanted to sit by her husband then, since although they’d arranged to now be seated in the same row, they were split by 15B. The Santa husband, silent until this time, piped up with an emphatic NO. Surprised, I looked up at him and waiting for the laughter to follow. Nobody laughed, and his eyes were hard as they met mine.

And that was that. The woman who’d negotiated her new row casually side-stepped right into her new seat, followed by a puzzled middle-seater, and an angry Boston Santa husband.

A girl did end up coming to my row, but we were blessed with an empty middle seat the whole ride across the country. She spent most of the five-hour flight openly reading 50 shades. I sat relishing in my solitude at the expense of a dysfunctional marriage.

Battle of the Loo

I’m the type of person that, often to my relationship detriment, is constantly competing. I compete as I’m driving, bargain shopping, selecting produce at the store, even against my roommate for things as trivial as who leaves for work first in the morning (a race I nearly always win but the times I don’t have been known to ruin entire mornings as I sulk into my cubicle with a defeated travel coffee). Sometimes, the competition comes in the form of races or time trials against myself– how quickly can I get from my desk to the office bathroom? Can I take fewer steps and also improve my time? Can I hold my breath the entire way? The result of these challenges has often been simply a very awkward looking girl in the back hallway from my office to the restroom taking quick, elongated steps, pale from not breathing.

I decided it was time for a new sport, and to up the ante even. What has seemed to take roots lately has been a “me against the office complex” challenge centering on… the first-floor community bathroom, my mini battlefield. Allow me to offer a sketch of the course of play. This is a fairly standard six-stall community restroom. The first five stalls are standard size, and the last is handicapped. We’ve got auto-flush toilets and no courtesy music. Sinks are auto, and despite everything else being automatic, we have paper towel hand dyers, no air dryers. It’s state government, so we’re not talking frills. I think you can guess where this is going; the object is to get in and out undetected. If you’re a guy, you might not get it. The ladies know what I’m sayin’.

Each game commences with the pushing open of the heavy bathroom door. It feels like a freshly dealt hand of poker upon each entrance. Your fate of the game is hinged upon the contents. I’ve crafted a few solid approaches to navigate any situation.  

You enter at the same time as another go-er (if it’s a coworker, disengage. This only applies to a stranger).  You both settle into your respective stalls. There's always that awkward silent moment. The other might rattle with the tp, or shift their feet, perhaps even a long sigh. Your hope is that they get in, get out and leave you in peace. However, there are times that they too want to be left in peace. It’s in this instance that you’re forced to engage in a stall-down.

It all depends on the urgency of the situation, but in my experience, you can almost never wait these people out. They are government employees and I’ve found their threshold to return to their desks to be much higher than mine. Leave and come back.

You enter to find a squatter, and by the position of their feet, they’re not planning to vacate any time soon. Depending upon the look of the shoes, you may or may not be able to draw them out of their stall by sink activity and clicking of makeup to kill time. Following etiquette (they arrived first), you must defer to them. Your choice is either skilled auto-flushing, or to simply leave and come back.

You find the place empty. You not only have your choice of stalls – a great position to be in – and you also have first right of continuance. Act fast, since time is limited. In an 11-story building, the bottom level restroom is rarely empty. I almost always select the handicapped stall at the end, lovingly referred to by others in my office as “the apartment.” If you’re able to get in and out without disturbance, you’ve won.

I could keep going, but think perhaps I should save some matters to the imagination. Maybe it’s a little late for that… oh well. Game on, suckers.