what was that?

Sometimes I mishear things. I think this is similar to my perpetual tendency to misread things. For instance, I have the horrible habit of reading something rather quickly and believing wholeheartedly that it says one thing when, in fact, it says something completely different. Sometimes this is problematic, but that's material for a completely separate blog entry. It makes sense that this would happen, given those theories that we really don't even need words to be spelled correctly or have letters in the proper placement in order to assign meaning to whatever it is we are reading. Our minds recognize patterns, fill in the blanks, etc. etc. I've taken those little "tests". I get it.

Sometimes it's really funny when you mishear things. Like recently when I was sure that my friend had said, "Who else wants to blame Ball if I have a tumor?" To which I raised my hand and said, "I'll blame Ball for your tumor, hahaha." [To be clear, my friend does not have a tumor AND she encouraged me to go ahead and publish this post, all political incorrectness aside . . .] Ball is a colleague. Sometimes I'm certain that he's a little too perfect. It's about time he was responsible for something horrible and awful and catastrophic. Like a tumor. My friend looked at me and burst out laughing, "not BLAME BALL, Christen, GO BALD." Ahhhh. Yes. I quickly informed her that I would not go bald because, let's face it, I'm much too vain to try to pull that look off successfully, but I would totally wear a pin that says, "I blame Ball." Which, for someone who doesn't wear pins EVER, is saying a lot. I kid, it is with the utmost affection that I would blame Ball. It is also with the utmost respect and envy that I joke at Ball's expense. He's a kind, considerate, hardworking attorney who has not yet lost his enthusiasm to change the world. God, I hate him. KIDDING.

Really, it just makes me bitter to think that I used to be like that. And, now, well . . . I'm not. I'm something completely different. Worn, tired, and altogether disenchanted. That's Ball's fault, too. I'm sure of it. In the interim, I console myself with the notion that Ball will get to this glorious stage of embitterment, too. Only time will tell. For now, I'll just blame Ball. For EVERYTHING. Works for me.

intervention anyone?

Among other things, I have obsessive compulsive eating disorder. This, of course, is a self-diagnosis. I self-diagnose a lot. If there is a disorder for perpetual self-diagnosis (separate and apart from hypochondria), I'm pretty sure I have that, too.

I feel rotund. [Come to think of it, the title of this blog should have been bottom line as my bottom line is getting HUGE.] Today was going to be the day that I started practicing healthy eating again. And, then, I had pop tarts for breakfast - which is bizarre considering I can't even remember the last time I have eaten a pop tart. I followed that nonsense up with a cafe mocha from Tim Hortons.

Epic. Fail.

My excuse is that I'm tired. I've been working late. I have projects. With deadlines. My knees hurt. And, I have a golf tournament on Monday next week (which I'm certain I have no business playing in), so I have to finish my projects early. I will be working all weekend. Sigh.

The more I work, the more I eat and the less I work OUT. The less I work out, the more I want to eat and the more I end up sleeping. I was ready for a nap at 8:49 this morning. I mean, honestly, I just yawned on a client phone call AND I did not even attempt to disguise it. WHO AM I?

I ate like SEVEN chocolate chip cookies last night. It's my husband's fault. He baked them. As I was shoving them in my piehole, I was having the following mental conversation - Skinny me: "dude, you're NOT EVEN HUNGRY. Stop eating. You're going to regret it." Gluttonous me: "Shut up. You deserve it, you worked sooooo hard today doing all that really HARD thinking. Have another." And, I did. And, then I did, again.

At this rate, I could turn out to be one of those people that goes through a drive-thru, orders an obscene amount of food and then parks in a deserted alleyway to binge eat and then cries about it on national television to Montel Williams. I kid. I would never hide in an alleyway.

The solution? I am also a self-medicater. I now need to cut out dozens of pictures from 1 of the 254 Victoria Secret magazines that are delivered to my office every week and plaster them around my office. You know, as MOTIVATION. I'm sure this will either go over exceptionally well with my boss, or be an utter disaster. In any event, I concede that it is a particularly dysfunctional habit, beating my OCD eating disorder into submission by further damaging my self-esteem. But, by golly is it effective. Especially since I know that the closest those girls would get to eating a chocolate chip cookie would be to touch it and then lick their fingers. I, too, shall get there. It's only a matter of time . . .

here she comes . . .

So I watched the Miss USA pageant on Sunday night. I'm not proud of it. And, in my defense, I only started watching from the selection of the top 10. As each girl strolled down the runway in her evening gown, a previously taped video of the girl explaining her dress played in the lower left hand corner of the t.v. screen. They were all idiotic. "My dress is silver liquid bead and I feel like an absolute goddess in it." "My dress is red, sexy and flowy, just like me." "The way I picked my dress was I walked into the store and told them, 'I want to look like a mermaid,' and that is why my dress looks like a mermaid." That one was my favorite. She went on to win the competition by the way. After she stumbled in her dress on the runway AND in both of the opportunities she had to publicly speak. First, she was asked, "I heard you had to sell your car to get here?" To which she responded, "I wasn't going to let financial problems get in the way of me being here. THANK you," and then she frosted a fake smile across her face and did that "pageanty" pose, batting her eyelashes. The hosts were unsatisfied with her short response and prodded her some more. She ended up blurting out that she had to sell her car to get into the Miss Michigan pageant, but that she didn't have to sell her car to be here because of her director. THEN she gave a shout out to her director. A shout OUT. During the Miss USA pageant. Who does that? At some point during her babbling, she laughed something about buying American. I felt like I was getting stupider by the minute just listening to her. But, I couldn't change the channel. I couldn't help but wonder what ridiculous thing she was going to say next. I couldn't wait to be proven wrong about pageants, where a woman who was actually poised and intelligent would win and I would watch Miss Michigan lose.

I was waiting with baited breath for one of the girls, just ONE of them, to say something intelligent and articulate. Just ONE girl. Just ONE thing. I thought Ms. Oklahoma had it in the bag. She was presented an excellent question about the new immigration law passed in Arizona and whether she believed immigration issues should be left to the states or to the federal government. She started out so good noting that she is a firm believer in states' rights, but finishing with, "I'm against illegal immigration. But, I'm also against racial profiling. So I can see both sides of the issue." What?? That wasn't even responsive to the question asked. And, who isn't against racial profiling? I sighed. To her credit, however, she did not shout out to anyone, nor did she laugh and blurt out weird sentiments to the audience. She was at least composed. And, she didn't look like a mermaid.

Ms. Michigan's question regarded whether the birth control pill should be covered by health insurance. The only positive portion of her rambling answer was that she does believe it should be covered. We have that in common at least. She went on to explain, "I believe that birth control is just like every other medication, even though it's a controlled substance . . ." Wait. What? Isn't all medication covered under health insurance a controlled substance? I'm SO CONFUSED. Despite the fact that she should have stopped her answer at that point (hindsight is 20/20 vision), she continued along the inarticulate lines of (and I paraphrase): You can get the pill for free at your ob-gyn or local free clinic, but it needs to be covered by insurance because it's "costly". Again, WHAT? OMG MY HEAD HURTS. Is it free or is it costly?? I can't keep up. And, maybe it's just me personally, but I feel like the term 'ob-gyn' should never be used on national television in the Miss USA pageant unless the judge posing the question uses it first.

After she butchered her question and answer sessions, I was certain that Ms. Oklahoma was going to be declared the winner and that Miss Michigan was going to place last. Given the outcome, I'm so glad I didn't put money on that prediction. Clearly I know nothing about pageants.

I was in a pageant. Twice. I placed in the Miss Buffalo teen pageant at the age of 13. I feel like I could have won it, but I --ahem-- screwed up my answer to my final question. NEVER BLAME THE TEACHERS when asked about improvements to education. Oops. I was 13, what the hell did I know? After placing, I was invited to go to Florida to compete in the regional competition. I went. As soon as I got there I knew that I did not fit in with these girls. They were, by the age of THIRTEEN, professional pageant goers. I remember mothers (or maybe their "handlers"?) following these girls down the hallway with aerosol cans of hairspray, touching up their already huge hair. I did not have huge hair. I felt small and unworthy. I had a really good interview in the Buffalo pageant, shucking and jiving with the judges - which is probably why I made it into the top 10 in the first place. I answered questions about how I wanted to change the world, what I wanted to do when I grew up, who I was, and who I could be. I was excited about my interview in Florida. Until I got there. Three judges sat across from me. All looked down their noses at me skeptically. They asked me questions like, "if you could be an animal what would you be?" and "if you could be a flower, what would you be?" I was crushed. My answers were equally shallow and meaningless. "A tiger? A rose?" I sighed. As I was dismissed from the "interview," I knew it was over before it even really got started.

In any event, this was the first time in history that I have watched more than a single consecutive minute of the Miss USA pageant. Easily thirty minutes of my life lost that I will never get back. I think I've had enough of Miss USA for quite some time, "Thank youuuuu."

Bottom line?

I need to meet more of my son’s friends’ parents. And, then, I need to learn their phone numbers. And, then I need to call them . . .

Until I was recounting how my 6-year old son spent a good part of his Sunday afternoon to a colleague at lunch (at which point we were DYING laughing), I hadn’t fully realized how . . . well, pathetic, it was that my son spent the whole week-end with (a) me, and (b) a caterpillar. Not to underestimate how freaking cool I am, because I am. And, I am good company dammit. But, that does not excuse the fact that my poor little man’s most exciting part of the day on Sunday was when he discovered and then befriended a caterpillar.

Almost immediately he determined that not only was he going to keep the caterpillar, because, as he proclaimed, “I care about this little guy MOM,” but he was going to build the caterpillar a LEGO house. In our house. I'm no psychologist, but that caterpillar clearly personified (caterpillarified?) Cameron's loneliness and boredom. Needless to say, Cameron rejected my encouragement to build the caterpillar a house outside. Because that's just UNCIVILIZED MOM. In fact, Cameron assumed the role of caterpillar lobbyist and advocate. This carried on full force until Cameron LOST the caterpillar. At which point, he cried uncontrollably. Gee, he really did care about that little guy. At some point, Cameron regained his composure, turned on the t.v., and flipped through the channels until he came to Die Hard.

You know you’re doing something really right or really wrong as a parent when the following conversation takes place with your 6-year old -- Me: “Cam, I’m not sure you can watch that movie, even though it’s on t.v., it’s still kind of violent.” Cam: “BUT I LOVE VIOLENT, VIOLENT’S THE BEST.” Right. [Mind you, this is not the first time this weekend he has said that. The first time was when he exclaimed it loudly in the middle of Blockbuster after unsuccessfully trying to persuade me to let him rent Alexander the Great. Much to his dismay, I opted instead for The Fantastic Mr. Fox . . .]

Seeing the still wet tears in his eyes, I didn’t have the heart to tell him he couldn’t watch the t.v. edited version of Die Hard – after all, it’s not like I was letting him watch 300 or Texas Chainsaw Massacre. [Nor, is the irony of his quick transition from crying over a caterpillar to watching Die Hard, because “violent’s the best,” lost on me.] So I sat down and watched with him, you know, to monitor. I swear it had nothing to do with the younger and shirtless Bruce Willis.

About 30 minutes later, and after flopping all over the couch in true 6-year old fashion, Cameron gasped and pointed next to me. There, on the pillow, was the caterpillar. You can imagine Cam’s glory as he picked the caterpillar up and put him on his chest, where he proceeded to “pet” it for the duration of the movie.

So, yes. I need to arrange play dates for my son. With human children.

red whine, cont.

Perhaps drinking so much wine yesterday wasn't the best plan. Sigh. This is a sentiment that I find myself writing way too often. Wine makes me ever so lazy. It convinces me that I really don't need to get out of the house and engage in some level of meaningful physical activity. Oh no, because the perpetual standing up from the couch, walking to the kitchen, uncorking, and pouring the wine all amounts to some measurable form of aerobic activity. Of course, that is until I remember to simply BRING the wine into the living room with me.

Wine also convinces me that I am cold - due, in part, I'm sure to the utter lack of physical activity I'm engaging in. Thus, I find myself even more prone to settling into the couch, with the fireplace on and a movie ready to go on the DVD player. My husband loves when I turn the fireplace on when it's 60 and sunny out, especially when he's outside working and I'm lazing about in a quasi-vegetative state running up the utility bills.

Wine further convinces me that I am hungry. And, that I am not hungry for fruit or vegetables or anything moderately healthy. No. I am hungry for salty, savory, indulgent foods. Like cheese. And, breads. And, mashed potatoes. But, let's be honest. I always crave mashed potatoes.

Wine makes me a sloth. I'm sure of it. My husband suggested that we go for a walk last night. The thought of it was revolting. Needless to say, the walk did not happen. I regret it now. I should have taken that walk, perhaps then I wouldn't feel as though I was wearing a small inner tube around my waist.

Even still, as I sit here with my space heater on (have I mentioned that my boss loves it when I run my space heater when it's 60 and sunny out?), contemplating what to do for lunch, glaring at the piles of work begging to be acknowledged on my desk, I can't help but wish I was home, cuddled up with a movie and . . . yes, a glass of wine.

red whine

I am neurotic. Hugely. Massively. Potentially paralytically. It affects everything I do.

I'm sure it's behind my completely embedded fear of expiration dates and, in turn, quasi expiration dates - meaning there is no time that the food/drink/service/whatever ACTUALLY goes bad, but I mentally impose such a date. This is particularly true for red wine. I will only drink red wine from a previously opened bottle if (1) no more than a day has passed since it's uncorking, or (2) it's a screwcap wine, in which case 2 days may be acceptable.

However, if my 34 years have taught me anything, it is that desperation makes circumstances that may otherwise seem untenable, completely O-KAY.

For instance, given the three empty red wine bottles on my counter (and NO they are not all from TODAY), I am currently drinking wine from a wine bottle that was opened approximately ONE WEEK AGO. I know. You're all, "shut up," and I'm all, "I know, it's true, I can almost convince myself that it doesn't taste like vinegar, just so I can continue my soothing buzz through bedtime..." I love bedtime, but right now I love wine more.

Speaking of bedtime, I need to remind myself (pause for entering this reminder into my blackberry) to educate my son on the principle of NOT going to bed mad at someone. He's totally mad at me. You see, my son has inherited all of my neuroses and insecurity issues. He is over-sensitive and completely dramatic and there's little I can do about it, except be proactive. I was not proactive this evening. Instead, I hurt his feelings, apparently, when I giggled when he told me to "duh-lete" a picture I snapped of him because, DUH, it was embarrassing. I love it when he says "duh-lete." It's SO DAMN FUNNY. He, on the other hand, is not such a fan of me repeating it. It is the WORST thing in the world. I'm a terrible mother. Needless to say, he is in bed pouting (I tried to apologize, but was shot down almost immediately), so I've nestled into the couch where I'm feverishly typing into my blackberry because I'm too fucking lazy to move over to the office and write this on my actual computer.

In any event, I am enjoying, in the 15 minutes or so I have before I physically stop functioning for the night, 1/4 glass of wine that ALMOST does not taste like vinegar. Except it does. It does taste like vinegar and each little sip tickles my gag reflex. Yet, I can't stop. This may be a sign of a problem. Oh hell, who am I kidding, of course it's a problem. But I embrace it. I embrace my vinegar wine and lift my glass in a toast to you all, "cheers."