Wait... I have Something to say

It is 11:15 p.m.

I am sitting at a small table, on a hard chair, and watching the airport man clean the floors.

I think I'd like his job. He gets to ride around in circles on a blue cart. Also, he gets to wear latex gloves.

I don't know though, maybe it's not as glamorous as it seems.

My flight to New York has been delayed 4 hours.

I can't complain of course, because I was begging the universe not to let me miss my flight. As far as I'm concerned, the universe not only came through for me, but also gave me the opportunity to watch the man two tables over sleep sitting up and let me enjoy this small table and hard chair.

I feel thoroughly validated.

The only problem with having an unanticipated four hours in the airport is that there is plenty of time for thinking. I have become unaccustomed to the process, and all the thoughts that have been waiting to be thought about, are now giving me a headache.

To distract myself, I am watching the airport workers change the light bulbs. I think I would like to own one of the machines they are using. That way I could reach the cups on the top shelf without having to crawl up on the counter.

Side note: I'm fairly certain every single one of the airport workers must think I'm a stalker with a thing for blue shirts.

Because I keep staring at them. Then turning back to my computer and typing away.

Unfortunately for all parties, I am not a stalker. And I feel pretty unenthusiastic about their blue shirts. I say unfortunately, because I think all of our lives would be a little more exciting if I regularly frequented the outside-of-security section of the airport, at around midnight, in attempt to pick up airport night workers.

I bet you think I'm going somewhere with this.

But I'm not.

Wait.

I changed my mind.

I have something to say.

First, I'm not a stalker. I'll admit, in high school I displayed some signs of stalkerdom, but I have grown out of it almost entirely.

Second, I am a little offended that the airport worker didn't even wink at me, despite my seemingly obvious interest in his blue shirt.

And third, I would just like to stand up and say that I still believe in dreaming big. I mean look at me, I wished for a little bit of luck with time, and I ended up with four extra hours in the airport.

I think I'm probably the luckiest girl EVER.

I wish I could just flush these tweezers down the toilet

I'm going to be completely honest.

When I woke up this morning, I did not think that by the end of the night I would ask my sister to comb through my hair, piece by piece, with her bare fingers to check for ticks.

I mean, that wasn't even on my radar.

And let's face it, I wake up with some weird ideas sometimes. (Most of these weird ideas are inspired by Katy Perry and her song about fireworks. Because for whatever reason, I wake up with that song in my head every. morning.)

But the point is, even Katy Perry couldn't make me think that by 11:59 p.m. I'd be standing in front of the bathroom mirror cringing everything my sister went in for a closer look.

But I was. Standing in front of the mirror. Praying that my sister would not see anything with eight legs crawling around in my hair follicles.

I hate arachnids.

A lot.

You'll be happy to hear though, that my sister did not find any ticks on my head.

Roxy was not so lucky. And after my sister finished checking me for creepy crawlers, I spent the next 45 minutes trying to dislodge one of the disgusting eight-leggers from Roxy's neck.

(That's where this whole thing started by the way. Cabo had ticks. Roxy interacts with Cabo. I like to let Roxy and Cabo sleep on my bed (because it reminds me of Homeward Bound). Homeward Bound failed to emphasize the realistic possibility of dogs carrying ticks, especially after having spent 2 weeks abandoned in the woods. And because of a groomer that likes to give poodle cuts and the civic irresponsibility of certain movies I watched as a child, suddenly I'm standing in the bathroom wishing that I had followed Brittney Spears example and just shaved the hair off my head.

Just kidding. There has never been a single second of my life that I wished I would have followed Brittney Spears example.

But I think I've made my point. Arachnids + bathrooms = trauma.)

So anyway, after I sat in the hall for an hour trying to kill one tick by pouring a half-empty bottle of Advantix on it, I finally pulled out a pair of tweezers and tickled the tick until it came out.

I couldn't pull it out, because 1) gross. And 2) the internet said it's head could get stuck in my dog's skin, which just didn't sound ideal.

So I just sort of poked at it until eventually it gave up its will to live and fell in my bowl.

It's been a long night. And, frankly, I'm exhausted.

But unfortunately, said trauma has resulted in the most unproductive all-nighter of my life.

I can't go to sleep - because if there are ticks in my hair, I will get them in my sheets, which I just finished washing.

I also cannot pack like I planned to do all night. Because if I touch my clothes, they will probably get tick germs on them. This is a completely rational thought--my belief that the tick germs will spread to my clothes. I know it is rational because I used tweezers AND latex gloves to remove the tick, and it it common knowledge that tick germs can infiltrate latex if said latex is used in conjunction with tweezers that were originally purchased so you could maintain your eyebrows.

Which brings me to my original point.

I wish I could just flush the tweezers down the toilet.

Goodness forbid I should accidentally use the tick-germ tweezers to try to clean up the excess hair upon my brow.

I threw those tweezers in the trash but still....

I would just feel a lot better if they were hidden deep, deep, deep, down in the sewer.

My phone will only let me type in the title so here's the short version: I'm holding a bucket of ice. In the hotel hallway. Can't sleep.

The Fridge is making a loud noise that is distracting my thought process, so if none of this makes sense, let's blame the fridge. OK? OK.

I have been waiting for this day all year long!

It's March.

Pull out your slip 'n slide and get ready for spring, because it's March and things are turning green.

(Okay, technically things have been green for a while now, because it's Arizona and because my grass is fake, but still...)

I love March.

I love it so much that I painted my toes at 11pm last night, so they'd be pretty for March. Then I promptly removed the polish because, as it turns out, I do not have a steady hand at 11 pm.

I love this month so much that when my alarm went off at 6am this morning, I almost actually considered getting out of bed and enjoying the new month. Then I promptly hit the snooze button because, as it turns out, I was tired.

AND... I love March so much that I have decided to log on to this blog and give you an update about my life. (I'll probably promptly delete it because, as it turns out, my updates are lame and slightly nonsensical.)

Since I last wrote, A LOT has happened.

First, I have decided to carry out my destiny as the reincarnation of Jane Austen. So far my achievements in this category include-- actually there is only one-- I have learned how to braid my hair all the way around my head. Also, I have not gotten married, so I guess that makes two.

Goals for this month: write 12 letters to dear friends and relatives. Also, write a novel that will later be turned into a PBS special.

Second, a few weeks ago I decided that ironing is a blatant waste of time. Since then I have spent an immeasurable amount of time trying to come up with creative ways to avoid it. Most of these creative ideas involve a squirt bottle. Occasionally that squirt bottle is followed by a blow dryer. But usually I just use the squirt bottle.

Goals for this month: keep up the good work.

Third, I signed up for the gym.

Goals for this month: go.

Fourth, I have tried to quit sugar 17 times. You should know that these attempts to quit usually end with me shoving chocolate chips down my throat.

Goals for this month: complete attempts to quit sugar 18,19 & 20. And try to keep the relapse chocolate chips to a minimum.

Fifth, I've become a whale detective. I'm not sure exactly what this entails, but I think I'm supposed to encourage people to save the whales. So, if you are eating fish caught by fisherman who kill whales, then STOP! Because if I catch you eating dolphin un-safe tuna, you'll have to face me and the badge (and by badge I mean paper card that I got from the Arizona aquarium).

But seriously, let's save the whales OK? Buy wild-caught salmon from Alaska instead of farmed fish. It's better for everyone.

And that concludes this update.

Oh wait, one more thing:

I just wanted to remind you that it's March.

I love this month.

Thank Y-O-U

It's the last day of November.

I am wearing blue.

And in the last two days, this side of Arizona has finally accepted that it's simply not summer anymore.

But let's go back to the last day of November bit.

Because this month I have written exactly two posts (the current included). And neither of them, up to this point, have said a single thing for which I'm grateful.

Which, on the bad person scale, puts me somewhere between a babysitter who steals a scoop of ice cream and kitten killer.

I like to stay as far away from the kitten killer side of that scale as possible.

So, I have decided to remedy this by telling you at least one thing for which I am grateful on this, the last day of November.

And here goes.

ONE. The Auto Zone.

When my car's engine light came on twice, in not so many months, I was saddened.

And I said, "Lola, the Corolla, what the heck? I know I called you akin to a low grade stripper, and I sometimes park you outside of the lines, but seriously. A battery, a 60k service and your very own bottle of Febreeze in just a couple of weeks? What more do you want from me? Why are you flashing that ridiculous-looking engine light in my face?"

And after that speech, I began picturing myself riding one of those engine bike things on the 60 freeway to work everyday. Maybe with a pink helmet and some nice knee pads.

But since my face is sensitive to the wind, I knew that would never work.

I prepared myself for the worst. I visualized handing over my Visa to a smiling mechanic with car grease stuck under his finger nails. And I practiced reacting to the news that Lola was simply not going to make it this time.

But then I found out that Auto Zone would tell me that Lola was dying for free. And I thought that sounded like a good enough deal, so I drove her to the store and parked her right up front.

Guess what!

Lola needed a new gas cap.

Not open heart surgery.

Thank you Auto Zone; I am grateful for YOU.

TWO. Vegetable Broth.

Needs no explanation.

THREE. Blankets.

Have I ever mentioned my affinity toward being warm?

FOUR. Blog posts without lists.

I must remember in the future that writing lists not intended for the grocery store or a busy Saturday irritates me.

FIVE. A lot of other things, for which I am even more grateful than vegetable broth and $12 car repairs.

And I would list them, one by one, except that I can't for various reasons, including, but not limited to, that it would put me too close to the hearts, stars and rainbows extreme of the bad person scale, and I don't want to give any false impressions or anything, and also, that's a lot of pressure, since no one can be a Lisa Frank explosion all the time.

Also, I don't know if you missed the bit a few paragraphs above about banning all future lists that are not meant merely for organizational purposes.

So basically, in conclusion, I would like to give a note to the other things, of which there are many-- I am grateful for YOU, all the time.

But especially today,

the last day of November,

on which I wore blue,

and it was cold outside.

I saw the bottom of Lake Pleasant. And it was dirty

I am currently wrapped up in a fleece blanket that I stole from the living room, chewing on a KitKat leftover from Halloween, and it's starting to look like my plans to clean the bathroom tonight are going to fall through.

The bad news is: if I have any guests over that need to use the bathroom, I'm going to have to send them to the Chevron down the street.

The good news is: with this new opening in my schedule, I have enough time to tell you all about becoming scuba certified, and the lessons I learned along the way.

I'll start with the most obvious--

1 ~ I should never, under any circumstance, move to Alaska.

Let me explain with a series of statistics--

Day One of pool lessons.

Outside temperature: 96 degrees.

Water temperature: 80 degrees.

Wetsuit type: short - 3 mm

Normal reaction to circumstances: fine

My reaction to circumstances: unstoppable shivering.

Day Two of pool lessons.

Outside temperature: 94 degrees.

Water temperature: 79 degrees

Wetsuit type: long - 8 mm

My reaction to circumstances: mostly controllable shivering.

After day one in the pool, my instructors bumped me up to the thickest wetsuit there is. Because I am apparently the type of person who needs 4 extra mm of neoprene to stay warm in a heated pool.

I have been searching Craig's List for a drysuit ever since. But so far all I've found is a men's extra large. I am happy to report that if I continue to eat leftover KitKats at the rate I am now, I'll fit into that suit in no time.

2 ~ My mom wasn't kidding when she said, "Put on your lifejacket. If you don't, you might drown, and we'll never find you."

I thought she was exaggerating. But I saw the bottom of Lake Pleasant. And it was dirty.

3 ~ 'Tis better to pee in your wetsuit, than to not.

I'll tell you what, if you happen to be suffering from a mild case of OCD and/or germaphobia, you may want to consider diving.

It'll fix you right up.

Because when you're deciding between breathing out of that mostly unsanitary regulator that 5,000,000 other people have put in their probably-mono-infected mouths and taking in a big mouth-full of Lake Pleasant water, you're probably going to put the dirty regulator in your mouth and feel pretty darn good about it.

And... when your swimming in the 68 degree water thinking about how you really could use a bathroom break and a Snuggie right now, you might be faced with some hard decisions...(to pee, or not to pee)... And I'll just say that one option is like pouring a bucket of hot water into a cold bath and the other is like looking for a bathroom in a rainstorm.

And I'm not implying that I chose one thing over the other, I'm just saying that one option was clearly better than the other.

And, when it comes down to it, the most important thing I learned (besides to NEVER hold my breath and to try to avoid decompression chambers) is that "good stuff is good, pick it."

(Thanks to Alex B. for supplying those words of wisdom, which, just for the record, actually had nothing to do with staying warm in wetsuits, and almost everything to do with choosing not to give terrorists pencils.)

Now, I'm going to go see if I can reschedule my cleaning date with the bathroom. Because, like the bottom of Lake Pleasant, I have seen my bathroom. And it is dirty.

Barnyards, Blank Screens and Bad Dreams

Once upon a time I had a dream.

I was trying out stand-up comedy.

And, as is common for stand-up comedians, I was trying to think of funny things to say.

But, first of all, no one could hear me over the viewing of Jurassic Park on the movie-theater-size screen in the background. And, second of all, I just wasn't funny.

As it turns out, my subconscious sucks at stand-up...

Guys, I haven't been the same since.

Every time I sit down to write anything, my evil shoulder criticizer is all, "Don't even bother. You'll never be funny. Remember that time you tried stand-up comedy in your dream...?"

Then it, the shoulder criticizer, gives me a sad smile, and poofs away.

I, in the meantime, am left staring at a blank screen, knowing that my dreams of publishing a humor column in a half-rate newspaper are crushed... gone... broken.

I won't tame the truth here--it has been hard times.

Because of this, I have been bottling up all sorts of exciting news.

Like how I've been thinking of ways to revamp the theme song from Puff the Magic Dragon. It's time that song made a come-back, don't you think?

And speaking of Puff the Magic Dragon, do you think I could be Puff the Magic Dragon for Halloween. Because I need a decent-enough-that-no-one-asks-me-what-I-am costume by tomorrow, and I've got nothing. I promise to start liking Halloween once I can figure out how to make a costume out of jeans, a t-shirt and some cool diamonds by my eyes.

You know what, maybe I could be Taylor Swift. She wears diamonds by her eyes. And she probably wore jeans once...

Do you think if I curled my hair, carried a guitar and wore a shirt that said, "Steven, Drew or Taylor Lautner?" people would know who I was? If not, I guess I could just throw a sheet over my head and say I'm Casper. But I'm pretty sure Casper doesn't wear diamonds by his eyes, or jeans for that matter.

And hey, as long as we're on the topic of Taylor Swift... who likes her new song Speak Now? I do. In fact, I like it so much that I have worked it into one of my life plans.

I came up with this idea a few nights ago when I was sitting in the car thinking about how the most exciting thing I had done in the past month was sing an Ashlee Simpson song on the freeway.

After a few minutes of thinking about ways to add a little carpe diem to my life, I came up with the following--

(The excerpt below has been written in present tense for dramatic effect -- or something like that.)

I drive to Vegas. Once there, I sign up for one of those shotgun weddings. Then, just as I'm about to say 'I do' to some stranger, one of my past lovers bursts through the doors. He is singing the new Taylor Swift song. Then he looks into eyes, stands up on a plastic folding chair, and asks me to meet him behind the barn. He, my past lover, doesn't approve of me getting married to this stranger, because he doesn't like the pastel colors that my guests are wearing. I think there are bigger issues in this wedding than the hues reminiscent of Easter, but I say yes to his barnyard proposal anyway, and take off running.

Later, I buy the wedding video so I can show my future grandkids.

(End present tense.)

Upon watching said video, the aforementioned future grandkids, will think the whole thing was all very romantic.

In fact, they will be so busy asking questions about this mystery man who doesn't like pastels, that they won't even have time or thought to ask me why I never did anything impressive with my life. I, in turn, will never be propelled to explain to the future generations how my dreams of becoming impressive by writing humor columns for a half-rate newspaper were crushed once upon a time by a failed attempt at stand-up comedy in, what can only be explained as, a very bad dream.