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.

2 plus 2 equals 4

My life has been kind of weird lately.

Weird as in I have no sheets on my bed. Because they looked dirty. And I found a bug on them. So, I threw them on the floor. And I am not going to pick them up. I am going to buy new ones.

Weird as in I am considering pursuing a career in shampoo bottle writing. Because I would like to be the person who makes washing your hair sound like an experience. And I would like to be able to say to people, "Oh, you use Suave? Did you read the instructions? No big deal, but I wrote that."

Weird as in I am wearing mismatching socks, and yesterday I ate Dairy Queen. Because I couldn't find matching ones. And because I was hungry and I didn't want to go to Barros Pizza wearing the same outfit I had on last time I was there.

Weird as in when I was 12 and writing out my 10 year plan, it did not include sleeping on a bed without sheets or writing (on shampoo bottles or otherwise) or eating Dairy Queen. I think it included five kids and matching socks.

Weird as in I watch too much TV, eat cookies too often and spend too much time trying to flatten the bumps in my ponytail.

Weird as in normal. As in not stressful. As in fine.

...As in 2 plus 2 equals four.

That's one of the only things I knew when I was 12 and still know now: 2+2=4.

The other one is: I'm not going for 4. I'm going for 1000.

Hey,

It has been a weird day.

I drank kale for breakfast.

That is all.

A Rationale for Hoarding

If you have ever watched TLC's Hoarding: Buried Alive program, you have probably thought to yourself,

Dang.

And,

Seriously?

And,

Intervention! Intervention! Can we please get some intervention up in here?!

And when the program was over, before you changed the channel to Wizards of Waverly Place (or is that just me?), you probably took a moment to be seriously pensive and think:

How does that happen? Why do people become hoarders?

How does someone go from the sweet lady who likes shopping at Ikea and reading want ads to the crazy lady who has 54 dead cats buried under a collection of newspapers and pieces of furniture that were never assembled?

Well, as most things do, hoarding starts small...

(Disclaimer: I realize that this is a serious issue. I am about to make light of it. If that offends you, please stop reading. Because I hate offending people.)

...It's starts on a 105 degree Tuesday.

In a normal work office. On a normal work day.

The time is 10 minutes after lunch hour.

And the future hoarder is still hungry.

She is wondering how she can survive without 28 more grams of sugar.

Just then she sees a glint of silver glimmering from a pocket in her purse.

Just kidding, nothing's glimmering. Actually, I can't remember why she looked in her purse. But she did.

And in her purse was one very smooshed--that's right, smooshed--Special K Bar.

In fact, based on the state it was in, she probably should have thrown it away weeks ago.

But instead of following normal food rules of society, she ate it.

And it was the best 28 grams of sugar she ever had.

Just kidding. Actually, this potential future hoarder has eaten gelato in Uruguay and chocolate cake from Costco--she has had better grams of sugar. But the sugar was good.

She also found a mysterious $10 bill that she thought she had spent. So she will now probably associate hoarding with re-attaining spent money.

In case you haven't figured it out, the potential future hoarder in the story is me.

So if you see me on TLC in 10 years in a house full of kittens buried under piles of Special K wrappers, you won't have to ask how it happened. You won't have to wonder why. You won't have to ponder how a perfectly normal girl who just happens to have birthday cards saved from her 10th birthday, ended up in crazy town.

You'll know.

It was all because of a $10 bill and a smooshed Special K bar.

I Seriously Need a Cat

I don't know if you know, but a certain gourmet cat food company is hosting the opportunity of a lifetime.

Which, incidentally, was not meant to be pun, but sort of is.

Here's why--

The other night I was watching re-runs of either How I Met Your Mother or Project Runway on Lifetime TV, when the commercials came on.

Usually, this would be the time when I hit the fast forward button on my remote.

But that night was different...

I was watching live TV.

Maybe it was fate. Or maybe it was just a coincidence.

But either way, that's when I saw it--the sign.

[Insert 1993 hit pop song by Ace of Base]

It was an ad for Fancy Feast's photo contest sweepstakes.

It told me to take a photo of me and my beloved pet cat, and I could be the winner of a big screen TV, year supply of cat food and...

A WALK-ON ROLE IN A LIFETIME MOVIE.

Ahhh!

Forget YouTube.

All I need is a picture of me and my cat. I'm going to be famous!

Not to mention, it's always been a life-long dream of mine to play a drug-addicted teenager with a propensity for spontaneous human combustion.

I'd even settle for a teenage runaway who sees ghosts.

And I'm sure that walk-on role is all I need to begin an illustrious career of playing distraught teenagers (preferably ones made famous by young adult literature) for the rest of my working life.

Obviously, I am already perusing Forbes magazine for the top ten places to retire at 28.

I've always wondered why, despite being a decade older, I still look 12.

And now I know.

It's so I can move to a retirement community in North Carolina while I'm still young.

There's only one flaw in my otherwise perfect plan.

I don't exactly have a cat.

I did once.

But that didn't really work out.

Don't worry though.

I have a back-up plan.

See, my neighbor had a cat that was not fixed.

And it was not kept indoors.

And it was a lady cat.

And, doing what lady cats do, it went and got itself all sorts of pregnant.

And so all I have to do, is walk down the street with some catnip, find the cuddliest of all the feral cats and take a photo with it.

In exchange for this photo, should I win the contest, I will give the stray a year's supply of a certain gourmet cat food.

You know, for helping me with the opportunity of a lifetime and all.